


A Permanent Arrangement

by little_murmaider



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Background Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Dating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, We got ALL the cliche fanfic tropes in this one my dudes!!!!!, gratuitous disney references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider
Summary: To drum up interest for their lagging businesses, the owners of Morbud Curiosity Florist and Please Ink Responsibly Tattoo Parlor hatch a cross-promotion deal. Abigail's floral assistant creates stunning custom bouquets, which then Pickles's apprentice transforms into gorgeous tattoos. It’s a hit! There’s just one problem.Their employees can’t stand each other.





	1. Chapter 1

Skwisgaar Skwigelf did not know today was the day his life would change. What he did know, with absolute, unfailing certainty, was today was going to suck.  
  
Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds like a fist to the eye, exacerbating the hangover pounding inside Skwisgaar’s skull. He blinked blearily, groaning at the disturbance. Then, the icy stab of realization plunged into his chest. What time was it? Bolting upright and pawing for his phone on the bedside table, his worst suspicion was confirmed. In his drunken, lustful haze the night before, he’d set his alarm to P.M. instead of A.M. His _only_ client on the books for the day would be in the shop in half an hour, and he was going to be late.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he mouthed. Crawling crab-like around his still-slumbering sex partners (two on the bed, one on the floor, one MIA), he toed past empty bottles and discarded clothes into the bathroom. A wave of nausea crashed into him as he entered; he clutched at the sink basin, the sour precursor to vomit rising in his throat, and waited for it to subside.  
  
The last few months had not been kind to Skwisgaar, and he paid forward that unkindness onto his body. His reflection was spectral. Were it not for the colorful bursts of ink across his body and the bruising circles beneath his eyes, he would be translucent. Hair was a bit greasy; not the worst, but definitely not to his liking. With no time to shower, he sprinkled a touch of baby powder onto his roots, combed through with his fingers, then piled it all into an untidy, bulbous bun. Popping the top off his long-empty deodorant, he swiped along its interior walls and rubbed its gummy remnants beneath his armpits. _Fuck_ , he was out of saline, too. He hated his glasses, the round wire-rims a reminder of a distant time when he was on his mother’s insurance plan. Maybe he could make his own saline? It’s just salt and water, right? He’d experiment later. A cursory glance across his teeth and tongue with his toothbrush, a splash of cold water against his face, and he was out.  
  
Despite complaints, the super had yet to repair the building’s washer-dryer units. Skwisgaar had neither the time nor the pocket change to fart around a laundromat, so dressing every day was a game of Cleanliness Roulette. He picked through the various heaps of clothing dotting his bedroom floor, giving each item a careful sniff. Bringing home people to such an uncharacteristic mess was embarrassing, but on rare nights he went to bed alone he was too exhausted to do more than kick aside a few things and pass out. Work at the shop had been thinning for months. He was lucky to see two clients in a week; most of his time was spent repairing equipment, cleaning, or helping Pickles conceive unsuccessful promotional campaigns. Any spare moment he had was dedicated to hustling. He’d taken a job working the night desk at a nearby nursing home, and while that offered certain perks of a _carnal_ nature, the pay wasn’t much. Catering gigs with a local company were well-paid but infrequent, the billy-goat bearded owner unwilling to adapt his unique business plan. (“Served Cold Catering! Where, like revenge, all our dishes are best served cold. No, we don’t serve hot dishes upon request. This is SERVED COLD CATERING you IDIOT... hello?”) Anxiety was his constant companion. Each day he feared his work at the shop would be his last, that Pickles could no longer afford to keep him on, and without his primary source of income–  
  
Skwisgaar didn’t like to think about it.  
  
The only clothes he could find any near the neighborhood of clean were yesterday’s jeans and a white ribbed tank top. The top of the norse compass emblazoned to his chest poked over the low neckline; the dark lettering on his ribs was visible through the thin material. It was meant to be worn beneath a sweater or sweatshirt, not as a primary piece. He looked like such a _douchebag,_ like he should roll up to work on a fixed bicycle. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. He threw his bomber jacket over it, pushed up the sleeves, tried to make due.  
  
Under normal circumstances he would not leave without giving his sex partners a personal goodbye. He _did_ have a reputation to maintain, a proverbial five-star rating on SlutMatch. With time growing short, he ripped a page from a sketch pad and wrote his standard parting note in triplicate: _Hads to runs to work. Last nights was fun. If yous wants to has funs again, you knows where to find me ;)_ Gently laying his note on each of his partners’ faces, he scooped up his boots and scurried out.  
  
A small silver lining to this morning’s tempest of bullshit: Before descending into debauchery, he’d remembered to set the timer on the coffee maker. A full pot of life-giving elixir awaited him. Sex and the looming terror of financial ruin were decent motivators, but coffee made him _functional_. Coffee was the only thing that kept him conscious, the only thing staved off his inevitable mental collapse. As he tugged on his boots he filled his lungs with that warm, familiar scent. He could almost taste it. It tasted like hope, like change, like dawn was finally breaking on his endless night of struggle and beaconing him to a bright and beautiful future.  
  
A deep, fist-shaped indent punctured the maker’s plastic exterior. Brown stains clawed down the white cabinets like the last desperate grasp of a murder victim. The glass carafe lay shattered on the cheap linoleum floor, a panoply of glass and still-steaming liquid.   
  
An involuntary whine of grief peeled out of him. For a split-second, Skwisgaar contemplated absorbing what he could with the sink’s rancid sponge and squeezing the remainder into his mouth. The brief moment of hysteria coalesced into full-blown rage. Only one person, one _monster_ could be responsible for this. Turning on his heel, untied laces slapping against his ankles, he stomped back down the hall and blasted into the bedroom opposite his without even a courtesy knock.  
  
His roommate lounged on his unmade bed, a mostly-clear oasis from the bedlam of filth that was the floor. A dusting of Doritos crumbs splayed elegantly across his bare chest. Nestled in his doughy thighs was a video game controller, fingers flying furiously over the buttons. Also present: Skwisgaar’s fourth sex partner, dressed in a sports bra and pair of mens athletic shorts and holding a controller of her own. Skwisgaar fluttered his fingers at her, gave as kind a smile as he could manage, before pivoting to laser-focus his fury on his roommate.  
  
“I can’t believe you main Ice Climbers, who _does_ that?”  
  
“Nathan.”  
  
“Yeah?” he answered, not looking up from the screen.  
  
“What happeneds to de coffee makers?”  
  
“What coffee maker?”  
  
Skwisgaar clutched the doorframe so hard it chipped the paint.  
  
“Oh, right, _our_ coffee maker. It burned my hand so I punched it.”  
  
“Does yous has a shifts at de call centers today?”  
  
“Uhhhhhhhhh _hhhhhhhhh–_ ” Nathan tilted head back to rest on the headboard, eyes squinting in concentration. “– _hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ oh yeah I got fired. No one could understand what I was saying.”  
  
“ _Oh_.” Skwisgaar’s voiced pitched up to a near inaudible squeak. He cleared his throat and spoke, low and with deliberation. “Wells. Den. Since you amn’ts working.  _Agains_. T’inks maybes you cans cleans up de kitchen? Pals?”  
  
“I guess. If I get around to it.”  
  
Skwisgaar ran his tongue across his teeth. He _knew_ he would not be able to get through this day without caffeine. With a shaky hand he withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket to check the time. If he sprinted the half-mile to downtown, he could squeak out _juuuuuuust_ enough time to stop by the coffee shop en route to work. Skwisgaar groaned; he made a point to avoid that shop. Great coffee, but _man_ did he hate the owner. What a buffoon. A total fool. An absolute clown.  
  
Nathan’s wallet lay open on the dresser, a slice of green poking out of the fold. Skwisgaar nabbed it, pulled out a crisp $10 bill and tossed the cheap leather holder into Nathan’s face.  
  
“Hey!” Nathan cried, finally looking away from his game. “I was gonna use that to buy things for me!”  
  
With a wink for his sex partner and a double middle-finger for his roommate, Skwisgaar bolted out the door, out of the apartment and into the street. As the pavement sent shockwaves shooting up his shins with every impact, Skwisgaar had but one thought.  
  
Today was really, _really_ going to suck.

  
**\---**

  
Though his back still ached from last night’s “private sermon,” as his father called it, Toki Wartooth awoke that morning brimming with excitement. Today he got to go into town. Today was an Errand Day, and Errand Days were The Best Days.  
  
Eight years ago, before the village closed itself off, members of the congregation made regular sojourns into town. These missions served a practical purpose (fetching necessities unavailable in their village) but also a pious one. With verses printed in neat block letters on sandwich boards and signs, the congregation took to the town square and pleaded with its citizens to _repent_ . They were a whirling dervish of evangelism, with Reverend Aslaug Wartooth soapboxed at their center. The reverend wove tales of fire and brimstone, how modern society was labyrinth of sin and how he _and only he_ would guide them through the Devil’s Playground of socialism, loose women and Chef Boyardee. God loved them! As long as they loved God _correctly_ .    
  
Only the men went on these journeys, of course: The five-mile walk was deemed too strenuous for the delicate women-folk. On occasion, however, young boys were permitted to attend.  
  
Toki had accompanied the group on what would be their final mission. His father had planned for weeks, re-wrote his sermon several times. He had machinations that _this_ mission was the most significant and profound of his life. He ushered the entire male congregation into town to protest some type of celebration. Toki, a teenager at the time, was unclear what kind, but there was a parade, and it involved a lot of rainbows and cheering. Taking up his usual place in the town square, the reverend straightened his spine, smiled, and opened his mouth to offer deliverance. But before he could utter a single phrase, a plastic orb launched through the air like a comet. It connected with the reverend’s face, right in the middle of his forehead, and exploded into a prismatic spray of shimmering colored fragments. The reverend was stunned and in the silence the crowd, which had pointedly ignored him to that point, emphatically turned against him. The laughter, the mockery, the verbal barbs and beverages lobbed at him and the other members of the congregation was too much to bare. They were run out of town, literally and figuratively.  
  
But his father’s horror did not cease when they returned to the sanctity of the village. A witness had recorded the incident in its entirety and uploaded it to the world wide web. In the time it took him to walk home the reverend had become a digital laughing stock. Memes, auto-tuned re-mixes, something called a “trending topic,” hacky bits by irrelevant late-night hosts had erupted in the wake of the reverend’s humiliation. He was mortified, and he was furious.  
  
That evening, the reverend took to the pulpit with glitter in his eyebrows and fire in his eyes. In his sermon he went full _end of days_ . The town’s denizens–and the Earth’s populace at large–were a common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd that was undeserving of salvation. They had bitten the hand extended in mercy and so were fated to damnation. The only path to righteousness was if the village turned inward, dedicated themselves wholly to the plan of the provider and not waste any more valuable time or energy on those destined for eternal torment. Additionally, The Internet was a foul series of tubes constructed by the Devil himself, and no good would come from interacting with it. In the dark of the night, with his bare hands, Toki alone tore up the underground cable lines circumventing the village.  
  
But the community was not the only thing the reverend wanted to isolate.  
  
From that moment forward, Toki was forbidden from communing with the congregation. Speaking with them was out of the question; even something as simple as making eye contact had grave consequences. In addition, he became the sole executor of the village’s most labor-intensive chores. Everyone else in the community was too young, too frail or too pregnant to do what was asked of Toki. Re-stoning roads and walkways. Chopping firewood for every hearth. Scouring the floor of the chapel before and after each service. Most shameful of all, three times a week, he walked the long, lonely road into town to fetch whatever supplies and groceries the village required. As much as his father wished to completely cut off from the outside world, their community was not self-sustaining. Who better to suffer the sneering derision of the damned than Toki?  
  
Young men of Toki’s age had long ago courted and started families of their own. But not Toki. He continued to live in the humble home of his parents, to finish whatever chore asked of him, to keep to himself. Some villagers speculated he had taken a vow of silence. Others believed he was “touched in the head.” Everyone found him peculiar.  
  
His father always framed it to the congregation as though these were Toki’s decision, that he believed his ultimate purpose was to put his parents’ and the village’s needs above his own.  But Toki knew the truth. On that final day in town, when that ball of glitter made contact with his father’s face, Toki had laughed.  
  
By the time Toki finished preparing for his departure, his parents had already left for sunrise service. On the kitchen table were two items. A grocery list, compiled by his mother, and his meal for the day: A single piece of stale bread. Their absence meant Toki did not have to perform grace, for which he was grateful. It was exactly 27 steps from his home’s threshold to the village’s entrance, and another 149 before the village was no longer visible through the throng of trees encircling it. Toki made this trek as he always did; head lowered, gait even, step light. Only when he put enough distance between himself and that place did he feel like the invisible iron shackle around his neck loosened. The canopy overhead thrummed with life, the brightening sky peeking between the leaves. Shaking out his tight braids, Toki took a deep, deep breath of fresh air, and smiled.  
  
On one of his wood-gathering expeditions, Toki discovered a tree stump with its interior hollowed out by decay. He realized if he positioned another piece of wood on top of it just so, it became a perfect, discrete place to stash things he did not want found. This was the first of his many “hidey holes.” In felled trees, beneath large rocks, scattered all throughout the forest were Toki’s dead drops, each containing the treasures earned from his double life. Toys, trinkets and treats were common, but most important were his clothes. He didn’t have much–a jacket Murderface thrifted, shirts Abigail’s nephews had outgrown–but what he did have was precious to him. Physical proof that he could be normal, that he _was_ normal.  
  
Waiting at his stump was the usual motley crew of woodland creatures. Some birds, a few squirrels, a pair of rabbits, a fawn. Toki withdrew his bread as he approached and crushed it in his fist.  
  
“Good mornings!” he beamed, sprinkling the crumbs on the ground before him. His animal friends nibbled at the offerings as Toki happily shirked his drab, conservative workman's clothes. “Today I gets to design a bouquet for a weddings, isnt’s dat wonderfuls?”  
  
Nudging aside the stump’s false lid, Toki pulled out its contents. A comfortable pair of jeans. A dark purple sweatshirt with cat ears adorning the hood. A holey pair of red high-top Converses. A neon green penny board Abigail confiscated from a loitering teen. And the most important item of all: A sunshine-yellow polo, his employer’s name stitched lovingly in bright green thread. His job. His sanctuary. And, with patience and more than a little luck, his eventual means of escape. Morbud Curiosity Florist.  
  
Toki continued as he dressed. “Toki don’ts t’inks he ever wants to get marrieds, but being in loves must bes pretty nice.” A small, fluffy white bird alighted on his finger, and he scratched tenderly beneath its beak. “I hopes some days I gets to meet someone to falls in loves wif. Maybe I’ll meets dem todays! Ha ha! Wouldn’ts dat be crazy!”  
  
Transformation complete, Toki dumped his old clothes into the stump, replaced the lid, and hitched the penny board over his shoulder. It would be another 3,468 steps before he could use it, when the jagged dirt path bled into smooth pavement. Chest swelling with possibility, Toki set off.  
  
Today was going to be a great day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I get to put my deep well of knowledge of Hallmark movies and rom-coms to use. I'm very excited about this story! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

Skwisgaar’s hands reflected the recent seasonal shift, white flakes of dry skin dotting his knuckles. He tugged on each finger as he waited in the glacial-paced line, a thrum of nerves at the base of his throat. When he’d entered the coffee shop moments ago, the drastic spike in temperature fogged his lenses. The frames sat perched on the end of his nose, and he squinted over the top of them like a cartoon owl who worked in a library.  
  
The shop’s chaotic decor choices did little to assuage his apprehension. Generic, sepia-colored portraits of newly-harvested beans. Framed album covers of has-been glam rock bands. Statement pieces one could only find at a failed magician’s yard sale in 1987. The hands of a technicolor Dali-esque clock behind the counter ticked ever closer to the next hour. If Skwisgaar didn’t put in his order soon, Pickles was going to have his ass.  
  
At last, Skwisgaar reached the front of the line, and saw the reason for the delay. The owner was the only one manning the counter. His toothy yet soulless grin widened at Skwisgaar’s approached. The mouth opened, and Skwisgaar braced himself for a screech as loud as his make-up.  
  
“ ** _WELCOME TO I DO CAFFEINE!!!_** ” he shrieked. “ ** _Y’ALL READY TO ROCK AND/OR R-R-R-ROLL?_** _”  
  
_“Large blacks coffee, please.”  
  
His obnoxious electric blue hair rustled as he shook his head. “ _Sorry, baybee, just ran out, you’ll hafta try again toMORrow!_ ”  
  
Skwisgaar had never killed a man, but in that moment, had never come closer to doing so.  
  
“ **Whats**.”  
  
A cackle peeled out of him.  
  
“ _Ha ha ha! Just kidding! That’s a little morning joke for ya. But seriously, we DID just run out of coffee. I put a new pot on, it’ll be a C-C-C-COUPLE of minutes before I can getcha that sweet bean juice_.”  
  
Skwisgaar plugged his mouth with the heels of his palms to stop himself from screaming.  
  
“How ams dat a JOKES if dat ams ACTUALLYS WHAT– ** _fines_**.”  
  
He side-stepped to allow those behind him to place their food and non-coffee orders. To his left a besuited man sat among a collection of otherwise unoccupied tables and chairs, his face hidden by a newspaper. Desiring an audience for his ire, Skwisgaar said, out loud, “What kinds of good for not’ings coffee shops runs outs of coffee?”  
  
“A popular one,” replied a familiar voice from behind the paper.  
  
“Ja! Well! Maybes he shoulds make more!”  
  
Charles folded his paper and smoothed it onto his lap.  
  
“He _is_ making more.”  
  
“Wells! I means!” He was running out of rope for an already frayed argument. “ _May_ bes! He shoulds _have_ more! Alreadys! To avoids dis exact situgations! Hm?”  
  
Charles took a delicate sip from his espresso cup.  
  
“Indeed,” he said, and nothing else.  
  
Charles was one of two people on the planet Skwisgaar could describe as one of his “regulars.” Beneath his buttoned up exterior was a complex atlas of ink, colorful worlds winding down his back, torso, legs. Some of Skwisgaar’s best work, if he was honest.  Charles was also _loaded_. He’d made a fortune in investment banking decades ago, and now spent his quasi-retirement operating his family’s lighting store, Offdensen Electrics. Charles, an alumni of the very same prestigious university Skwisgaar once attended, represented a road not taken. Skwisgaar never doubted his decision to drop out. But every so often, he looked at Charles and felt a twang of, not _regret_ , for he was incapable of feeling that, but its distant relative. A momentary, melancholy glimpse of what might have been.  
  
Buttoning his suit jacket as he rose, Charles said, “I’m, ah, I’m glad to have run into you, Skwisgaar. I have some availability this afternoon, and was hoping to come by the shop and have your latest,” he made a slight gesture toward his right bicep, “ _piece_ , finished.”  
  
Skwisgaar perked up at the day’s first scrap of good news.  
  
“Ja. Ja! Absolutelys! What times you wanna come in?”  
  
He flicked through the calendar on his phone. “Does 3:45 work?”  
  
3:45 was _perfect_. Enough time he could get a nap in between sessions, and the commission could buy groceries _besides_ ramen and beer. He might actually make rent this month! Skwisgaar was bursting at the seams.  
  
“I t’inks I cans squeeze you ins, poirhaps,” he drawled.  
  
“ _Or-D-D-D-DER up!_ ” The owner lifted the steaming cup aloft for Skwisgaar to see, then deposited it and a lid besides the register. The sight of it made Skwisgaar shiver with anticipation. So close was he to feeling that sweet nectar of the Gods rushing through his veins.  
  
“I’ll have Grace give Pickles a call to make it official.”  
  
“Sounds great, pals!”  
  
“ _5.75._ ”  
  
Any other day Skwisgaar would balk at the price, maybe emptily threaten to write a negative BELP review if he was really, really sleep-deprived. But not today. Today he forked over the $10 bill with gusto, even dunked a dollar into the tip jar, so strong was the adrenaline rush of a guaranteed future payout. He scooped the coffee in one hand, the lid in the other, giving the owner an appreciative nod. Warmth radiated through the cup’s cardboard holder, steam warbling over the neat paper lip. As he stepped out of the shop and into the morning sunlight, Skwisgaar paused in its threshold, taking a moment to thumb his glasses up the bridge of his nose and to savor his good fortune.    
  
Which is why he did not see the maniac on a kiddie skateboard, eyes shrouded by the cowl of a ridiculous purple hoodie, careening wildly towards him.

  
**\---**  

  
Toki had traveled from his village to his job countless times. He knew where the forest’s rough walkway became paved, knew the ebb and flow of traffic, knew the cavernous cracks and potholes in the downtown streets. He’d had several near-run-ins with disaster, but always evaded them by his strength of will and fleetness of foot. Toki was _good_ at riding his penny board and _great_ at spacial awareness.  
  
So _nothing_ that happened next was his fault.  
  
The sharp autumn air stung his skin, and Toki had zipped his hoodie right up to his chin to combat the chill. He was at cruising speeds, waving enthusiastically at the shopkeepers setting up for a days work. Greenlight after greenlight flicked in his favor. He would make it to Abigail’s in record time. Everything was coming up Toki.  
  
Suddenly, and without warning, the winds of change did what winds do.  
  
A stiff breeze caught Toki from behind, lifting his hood off the back of his neck and dropping it across his eyes. Panicking at the lost visual, his ankles buckled and he swerved hard to the right. But then before he could throw back the offending cloth, **_BANG! POW! COLLISION!_ ** The penny board shot out from under him and, as though he’d whiffed an attempted kick on an invisible football, his legs swung out in front of him and he was airborne. He could not see what happened. But he heard plenty.  
  
A high, feminine scream. A splash. The screech of tires. Car horns. Laughter. Then, the worst sound of all. The unmistakable, deafening **_SNAP_ ** of plastic.  
  
Toki crashed to Earth, his tailbone absorbing the brunt of the damage. Pain tremors reverberated through his body. Sucking air through his teeth, he pushed the hood off his brow and unclenched his eyes. Discomfort was forgotten and despair shouldered into its place when he saw it. One of the only material possessions to his name. One of his _treasures_ . Lying in the middle of the street. Broken in two. A wheel missing. An unsalvageable end. His penny board, never to be ridden again. It may as well been his own heart, cracked clean down the middle.  
  
Climbing rigidly to his feet, Toki righted his body to look upon the person who caused this horrible, unforgivable act. In the middle of the sidewalk, just outside the entrance of I Do Caffeine!!!, stood a lanky blond man, still and white as a birch. His expression was vacant, fingers curved into a _C_ , a phantom hold on a coffee cup now laying empty at his feet. His endless torso was clothed by a crisp white tank top, drenched in dark brown liquid.  
  
Darkness occupied a sizeable portion of Toki’s mind; twisted, unkind thoughts were frequent visitors. But acting on these impulses would only lead to his father taking more extreme lengths to rid him of them. To endure life in the village, to survive, he sealed that darkness away, let it coalesce and fester at the bottom of his stomach. But the darkness ran hot in his veins now, and Toki foresaw no consequence for unleashing it on this deserving, detestable creature.  
  
“You brokes my boards!” he wailed, sounding more petulant than intended.  
  
The stranger blinked, rousing from his paralytic shock. “ _Whats_ .”  
  
Toki huffed into the street, retrieved both pieces of his destroyed prize and jammed them into the stranger’s gaunt face.  
  
“See! It’s broken and it’s _your faults!_ ”  
  
The stranger’s eyes ticked from one half of the board, to Toki’s face, to the other half, back to Toki. His chest inflated as he drew a deep breath. The tight line of his mouth split, the words falling out slow but bolstered by a mounting rage.  
  
“Ams you…” he smacked the board pieces out of his sight, “... **_fucking kiddings me???_ ** ”  
  
Toki winced out of habit, but squared his shoulders to withstand the verbal onslaught.  
  
“You comes outs of nowheres, crash into mes, knocks mine **_coffee_ ** _rights out mine_ **_hands_ ** and den you expect mes to feel **_bads_ ** dat your little tiny baby toys broke?”  
  
“It’s _nots_ a tiny baby toys!” Toki yelped. “It was _cools_ and it was _mines_ and you _ruined its!”  
  
_ “You ruined my shirts!” He wrenched his fists in the hem of his tank. “Dis ams _your_ faults for not looking where yous going! Idiots!”  
  
“No, it’s _your_ faults for standings ins de sidewalks like a big dumbs statues!” Toki rubbed his still sore bottom. “Ands by de ways, I’m _fines_ after takings dat fall, _t’anks for askings_ .”  
  
The stranger rolled his eyes so hard Toki saw nothing but the milky whites. “Oh, wellllllll, _forgives me_ for nots kissing your boo-boos whens I just gots **_BOILING LAVA HOTS COFFEE_ ** dumped all over mes!”  
  
Toki swiped at the stranger’s stomach, fingertips grazing the soaked fabric.  
  
“It’s not _dat_ hots.”  
  
“You couldas burned my nipples off!”  
  
“Oh, who cares? Dey woulds have growns back!”  
  
“ **_WHATS?!?!_ ** ”  
  
The bells within each of the town’s dozens churches chimed in resounding unison. A new hour had been reached. Toki was content to continue yelling, but the sound of the bells shook the fight out of his sparring partner. He tilted his head toward the sky and moaned, as if issuing his complaints to the bells themselves.  
  
“ **Greats** ,” he said. “After alls dat and I’m _still_ lates.”  
  
He turned on his heel, throwing one final withering glare over his shoulder.  
  
“You knows,” he spat, “I’ve hads de _shittiest_ days, and meeting _yous_ was ams de _woirst parts_ .”  
  
With that, he was off like a shot, taking with him the chance to sate Toki’s rage.  
  
“Oh yeahs!” Toki called at his back. “Wells! Meeting _yous_ was de woirst t’ings dat _ever_ happens to me! In my **_whole lifes_ ** !!! Jerk!!!”  
  
But it was pointless. The stranger was gone, and so to was any opportunity to land any devastating parting words. The blinders of the event lifted, and Toki realized the spectacle had drawn a significant crowd. Heat rushed to Toki’s face, shame winding about him like a scarf. He flipped his hood back up, shoulders hitching turtle-like to hide his neck.  
  
Staring at the pieces of his board, a swell of emotion floated up his throat, which he quickly swallowed down. One more disappointment in a life made from nothing but. Following a respectful moment of silence, a reflection on the board's life and accomplishment, Toki slid it into the nearest trash can. He continued his trek to work, somber, hoping that Abigail would grant him time to vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [murderofonerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose) for coming up with the BRILLIANT name of Rockso's shop. Also I forgot to mention last chapter, but this entire Godless endeavor was inspired by [this wonderful art by my pal you-lady-skwisgaar!](https://you-lady-skwisgaar.tumblr.com/post/174960262106/you-lady-skwisgaar-floristtattoo-artist-aus-are) Hooray!


	3. Chapter 3

The cheerful jingle of the bell above Abigail’s door never failed to lift Toki’s spirits. When he entered the shop, the dark storm clouds in his brain began to break. As he breezed by the floral coolers filled with clusters of roses, tulips and peonies, he drew a smiley face in the condensation with the tip of his finger. The morning’s unpleasantness had knocked him down, but nothing could stamp out the joy his job brought him.  
  
Though a few bouquets were spotted about the store, most were in the back workroom. Morbud Curiosity’s inventory had branched out beyond florals in recent months. Notebooks and planners whose covers bore words like **BELIEVE** and **HOPE** in bold gold foil. Oversized coffee mugs painted with cheeky mermaids, the handles curved, glittery fins. Wooden placards declaring **IT’S WINE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE** in barely legible script. Abigail hated catering to the _LIVE LAUGH LOVE_ crowd. She wanted her floral designs to be the sole reason people visited her shop. But custom orders were down, and kitch consistently sold.  
  
Abigail stood behind the register, chin in hand, disinterest glazing her expression. Opposite her, Murderface made himself too-comfortable as he slouched against the counter. A brown paper bag saturated with grease sagged between them.  
  
“ _Yeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh_ the thing about _road life_ isch it’sch not for everyone.” He stretched his arms to their full length then folded them behind his neck. “It requiresch _dilligensche._ _Dedicashun_. An _abscholute_ commitment to your cuschtomersch. Every parschel I deliver ish **preschiousch**.”  
  
“Okay, road hawg.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a cardboard container, and threw it down like a gauntlet. “Want to explain why my breakfast order, which _you_ delivered, is missing half my tater tots?”  
  
Murderface shrugged.  
  
“Road life worksch up an appetite. I get hungry. I’m not allowed to get hungry? You want me to be _on the road_ while I’m _baschically schtarving_? That’sch how accidentsch happen. _Schorry_ I value the _schafety_ of _everyone around me._ ** _Abigail_**.”  
  
“You makes it sounds like you’s a long haul trucker.” Toki slapped his mother’s grocery list on the counter as he passed. “You’re just a delivery boys.”  
  
“I am a _freelansche vehicle operations technishun_ , **schpecializing** in the **transchport** of **_schenchitive materialsch_**.”  
  
“Alright, calm down, everyone knows you’re very good at the job you made up.”  
  
“THANK you.” Murderface preened, shooting Toki a look of smug gloating. Toki tied his apron, unbothered.  
  
“Speaking of _your job_.” Abigail pressed two fingers to the neatly folded parchment and slid it in Murderface’s direction. “Get everything on this list, get back here by three.”  
  
“Your schtandard order, I got it.” He flicked his wrist dismissively. “I do thisch three timesch a week, you don’t have to explain it _every time_. I’m a _professchional._ ”  
  
Abigail did not break eye contact as she lifted her half-empty container of tater tots and dropped it into the trash.  
  
“I’ll take care of your schpecial little list right after I pop by the community center for my weekly improv group.”  
  
“I’d rather you do the thing _I_ asked you to do first, since I’m the one _paying_ you–”  
  
“Ahhhhhh the community center!” Murderface continued undeterred, arms akimbo and starry eyed. “They offer scho many programsch that enrich and better our town! Youth schports leaguesch, movie nightsch, a limitlessch array of coursesch for schtudentsh of all schkill levelsh, and scho much more! The name isch apt, because it truly isch the cornerschtone of our community. It’sch like I alwaysch schay: A town without a community center isch a town that deservesch to be burned to the fucking ground…”  
  
“Please leave.”  
  
“You got it, bossch!”  
  
List pinched between his thumb, pointer and middle fingers, he tipped an imaginary cap, turned on his heel and departed.  
  
Toki politely waited for the front door to click shut before asking, “Why you still use hims? He isn’t a very goods delivery boys.”  
  
“Because he’s cheap.” Abigail grimaced as she laid out the sopping remains of her breakfast order. The fruit cup had overturned in the bag, and everything was drenched in juice. “And if we’re going to open our event space by the end of the year, we need to squeeze every penny.”  
  
Abigail had long aimed to expand into event planning. She occasionally hosted small gatherings at the shop for local clubs, but to fully realize her vision, she needed a space large enough to house her ambition. After several false starts, a breakthrough: A property at the edge of town was available. Outdoor patio overlooking an adjacent pond. Walls of windows connecting to a series of skylights in an elegant arch. A sprawling garden half-mooning the grounds, greenery visible from every vantage point. As Abigail signed the papers, a name came to her: **_The Greenhouse_**. It was perfect.  
  
It was not perfect.  
  
The property had sat vacant for over a decade, and for good reason: It was a damn money pit. Electrical, landscaping, plumbing, extermination, roofing–each day unearthed more problems, more bad news from contractors. Keeping her shop afloat, and keeping Toki on the payroll, required stringent bookkeeping. Renovations paused for months at a time.    
  
But at last, they were on the precipice of the Grand Opening. Just a few more finishing fixes, a few more permits to acquire, a few more bills to settle up. All they needed was the cash.  
  
A display of miniature succulents was at the shop’s center, the plants encircling a small standing chalkboard reading _SUCC IT_ in Abigail’s artful cursive. She arranged them without her usual meticulousness, melancholy slowing her movements. Toki stopped sweeping.  
  
“Whassa matters?”  
  
Abigail sighed, lips twisting in disappointment.  
  
“We didn’t get the Harvest Festival contract.”  
  
“Whats?” The morning’s rage rebubbled to the surface. “Hows? We spents hour on dat proposals!”  
  
She raised and lowered her shoulders. “The town planning committee met last night and decided to go with the bid from that national chain. You know, that one that sells candles _and_ flowers?”  
  
“T’ings Dat Makes Scents? Dey sucks!”  
  
“Yes. But they offered to do the event for _half_ the price we offered.”  
  
“De Harvest Festival ams a _town events_. Why wouldn’t dey hire a business whats ams _ins de town_?”  
  
She chuckled. “Capitalism, am I right.”  
  
His anger became unwieldy. He slammed his fists into the display, rattling the plants in their pots.  
  
“All dose town committee types talk abouts ams how _greats_ dere small businesses am. But insteads of _supporting_ dose small businesses dey woulds rather we fucks off and die! It’s bullshit! It’s fucking **_bullshit_**!”  
  
A succulent jumped from the edge of the table top. Abigail caught it midair, replaced it, and leveled Toki with a Look. His anger evaporated.  
  
“Toki’s sorry.” He sheepishly straightened the succulents that had shuffled out of place. “It’s just…dis really sucks, Abigail!”  
  
“It really, really sucks.” Her gaze was hard but her voice was gentle. “But you _can’t_ lash out like that every time you’re upset.”    
  
“I knows.”  
  
“We’ve talked about this.”  
  
“I _knows_.” He furrowed his brow. “I guess I’m still mads about _dis jerk_ from dis mornings.”  
  
Abigail smirked. “This is a town full of jerks, you’ll have to be specific.”  
  
“Dis guy in fronts of de coffee shops!” His face heated at the memory. “I bumped into hims a _little bits_ and he freaked outs! He yelled ats me ands didn’t say he was sorries for breaking my boards ands I didn’t even do anyt’ings wrongs, _at alls_ , **ever** , ands I don’t wants to talk abouts it!!!!”  
  
“Your board broke?” Her expression softened, her arms uncrossed. “Oh, Toki, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved that board.”  
  
A wave of grief pulverized him as he remembered, once more, he would never ride his board again. He tried to shrug it off but did so too fast, hissing as his shirt shifted across the fresh wounds in his back. When he opened his eyes Abigail was at his side, a tender hand laid on his forearm. Abigail did not know the specifics of Toki’s home life. But she knew enough that whenever he appeared for a shift, she looked relieved.  
  
“When was the last time you ate?”  
  
A guilty flush colored his cheeks. Abigail smiled, then nodded to a paper container of oatmeal waiting on the counter. Toki beamed. He scrambled to the counter, popped off the lid, but as he looked within, his grin sank.  
  
“Hey, chin up, little buddy!” Abigail said brightly. “We’ll figure out some way to finish paying for the event space.”  
  
“It’s nots dat.”  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
He tilted the cup forward. The oatmeal’s middle was scooped clean out.  
  
“I t’inks Moidaface ates some of dis, too.”  
  
She sighed.  
  
“Pretty sures he useds his fingers.”  
  
“I am _not_ tipping him.”

**\---**

Skwisgaar blew the hinges off the tattoo parlor’s door, shucking his jacket like an oyster. Framed tattoo designs toppled from their mounts and clattered, unbroken, to the black-and-white checkerboard tile. Pickles, ankles crossed neatly atop the front desk, did not glance up from his copy of _Tits Ass Moanthly_.  
  
“Sorries sorries sorries sorries I _knows_ I’m lates but you _can’ts_ be mads at mes dis times.” His shirt caught over his head as he bounded into the bathroom sightless. “Some–ow, fucks!–Some crybaby idiot _slammed_ into mes ons his tiny crybaby skateboards ands _dumped_ mine coffee all overs me ands _ruineds_ my shirts, I don’ts want to talk about it!” The tank top hit the lid of the toilet with a wet _smack_. “Can you stalls my clients while I cleans up?”  
  
“Whoa, slow down there, stretch.”   
  
Skwisgaar poked his head from the bathroom, wet paper towels wadded in his fist.  
  
“Yer client canceled.”  
  
Water slithered between Skwisgaar’s knuckles. “They _whats_?”  
  
“Yeeah, called right afta ya clocked out yesterday.” He scratched at his eyelid with his middle finger. “Did I naht tell ya that? Pretty sure I meant ta tell ya that. Eh. I’m tellin’ ya naow soooooo……...yer welcome.”  
  
A gurgle of disgust bubbled impotently in Skwisgaar’s guts. So all the morning’s angst, all the stress and rushing and rage, had been a complete waste. Another pointless spin around the hamster wheel that was his life. He wanted to be mad, but he was too tired. His reserve of Fucks to Give had run dry; he had not one to spare.  
  
“Cans I at least borrows a shirts?” he grumbled, scrubbing at the sticky streaks of dried coffee snaking down his stomach.   
  
Despite _multiple_ warnings from the town council that the building was _not_ zoned for residents, Pickles spent more nights at the shop than his own home. (“My shop’s right next to th’bar. My house isn’t next to th’bar, whuddumeye supposed to do, _naht_ go to th’bar? In _this_ ecahnamy?”) Pickles disappeared beneath the desk; a black t-shirt sailed out from the spot he once occupied. It was a well worn tour tee, the dates and cities peeling off the dingy cotton. On the front, a decal of two serpents coiling around a cask. Pickles’s incomprehensible affection for this cheesy 80s group ran deep. Several pieces of their merch decorated the shop, and Pickles itched to purchase tickets for their upcoming reunion tour.  
  
Skwisgaar tugged the shirt over his naked torso. The hem barely reached the bottom of his ribs.  
  
“Does you haves any’tings dat wasn’t designed fors a toddler dying of consumptions?”  
  
“Real fuckin’ cute.” Pickles cracked his back and padded across the shop. “It’s that or ya wear yer jacket over yer bare chest like that catering company douchebeeg.”  
  
Skwisgaar rubbed the fine down of blond hair crawling out of the waistband of his jeans. “You _knows_ his names.”  
  
“Tch. Yeeah, I know his name, alright. I been drinkin’ fer the last 15 years tryna _forget_ his name."  
  
Having given the shop a total scrub down the day prior, Skwisgaar was lacking mindless tasks to distract him for the next several hours. He dropped his spent paper towels to the floor, then stooped to deposit them in the trash, one by one. Pickles leaned against the bathroom’s doorframe, the shop’s light behind him casting his face in shadow.  
  
“Er-ah, yer client wasn’t the only one who called yesterdeey.”  
  
Sometimes Skwisgaar’s conquests would call inquiring of his evening plans. But from the darkness in Pickles’s expression, Skwisgaar knew this was not a pleasure call.  
  
“Lewk, there’s no good way to transition here so I’ll just say it.” He grimaced. “Yer mom rang looking fer ya.”  
  
Something within Skwisgaar’s brain shattered, a brick haloed in glass shards carrying a crude ransom note. **_YOUR MOTHER CALLED_**. Their last conversation–messy, loud, devastating–was right after Skwisgaar dropped out of school. Part of the reason he’d accepted Pickles’s apprenticeship over other, better-paying offers was the distance it put between himself and _her_. He’d worked himself to the bone building a life independent of her. How did she find him? What would she say? Would there be anything left of him when she was finished? He felt the blades of a thousand knives flush against his throat. His mind echoed a single, panicking word. _No. No. No. No. No...  
  
_“Skwis! Snap outta it!”  
  
He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His worried phrase had not just been cycling in his head: He had been saying it out loud. Pickles’s hand was on his back, and a paper cup of lukewarm coffee was pressed into his palm. The shop coffee maker had been around since Pickles bought the building a decade ago–maybe longer. It was only used in the more dire of circumstances. Even fresh, its tasted like gasoline. Nonetheless, the gesture was kind, and Skwisgaar was appreciative. He took a sip, hid his wince.  
  
“I told her to go fuck herself, and if she shows up here I’ll say it to her fuckin’ face.” Pickles traced small circles between Skwisgaar’s shoulder blades. “Is it safe ta assume Nate’s outta work again?”  
  
Skwisgaar mumbled his assent.  
  
“Alright. We can throw him a coupla bucks to sit by th’door and, I’unno, play security? Throw her in the street if she shows up? That’d be pretty funny, wouldn’t it, pal?”  
  
Skwisgaar imagined his mother, coiffed hair disheveled, overpriced dress smeared in mud, lying in the gutter outside the shop, shrieking. He snorted a laugh.  
  
“There’s my guy.” Pickles gave Skwisgaar’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Don’ worry about yer mom fer naow. We’ll cross that bridge when we’re under it.”  
  
Skwisgaar gave a small smile. “T’anks you, Pickle.”  
  
Pickles grinned, then clapped his hands, as though struck with a sudden, exhilarating thought. “Oh! Yer luck is turnin’ around! You haffa a walk-in! Sahrry, I shoulda led with that.”  
  
Skwisgaar squinted as he calculated how much time had passed since his ill-fated stop at I Do Caffeine!!!. “Charles saids he couldn’ts comes ins til dis afternoons.  
  
The light of recognition went out behind Pickles’s eyes, his smile widening unnaturally, and Skwisgaar knew at once they were not talking about Charles.  
  
“Even better!! Ya have _two_ walk-ins todeey!”  
  
Dread unfurled in Skwisgaar’s chest. Feet rooted to the floor, he craned his neck like a nervous giraffe, enough to peer between the dark purple curtain separating the foyer from his work station. He needed only a glimpse of the worn Doc Martens and fishnet-tighted calves to know who awaited him in his chair.  
  
“NO.” He stage-whispered.  
  
“So whut I _should_ be hearin’ is t _henk you fer th’opportunity to make more money, Pickles_. _Yer th’best boss a motherdouchebeeg like me could ask fer, Pickles. I love you, Pickles._ ”  
  
Skwisgaar clasped his hands in a tight knot. He was not a praying man, but in that moment, he would accept the aid of any god he could get.  
  
“ _Please_ , Pickle, I _can’ts_ deal wifs her today. Cans you takes her?”  
  
Extending his stubby leg as far as it would take him, Pickles took a massive step backwards.  
  
“Ooooh, see, _I would_ but I’m er-ah _busy_ doin’...” He glanced around, snatched up an empty energy drink can in one hand, and a burned out floor lamp in the other. “...whutever it is I’m doin’, over here.”  
  
“Pic _kle_ –!”  
  
“Also I don’ want to.”  
  
“Dat goil give me de creeps, dudes! She gots de _crazy eye_.”  
  
Pickles stabbed an accusatory finger in the air. “ **Hey** , show some respect. That crazy broad is pretty much singlehandedly keepin’ the lights on in this dump. She’s basically signin’ yer fuckin’ checks. So go in there, smile, and give her whutever she wants.”  
  
Skwisgaar squeezed his eyes shut, steeled himself, and contemplated how this day could get any worse.  
  
“Oh, and keep alla sharp objects outta her reach.”


	4. Chapter 4

The _pop_ of Skwisgaar’s knuckle quelled his nerves for only a moment. He yanked on his ring finger and, when it did not yield a satisfying _crack_ ,  he pressed it into his opposite palm and bent it far as his skin would allow. Plastering on a smile, he sucked air through his teeth, parted the curtain, and nodded at the trainwreck lounging in his chair. Wide eyes framed by lashes caked in mascara, stiff and straight as the leaves of a Venus fly trap. Black leather corset laced within an inch of its life. The overwhelming scent of Victoria’s Secret Love Spell, and desperation.  
  
Skwisgaar was not in the position to turn away customers. But why did it have to be today, and why did it have to be _her_?  
  
“Hullos, Trindle.”  
  
She grinned. “Hello _yourself_ , you big sexy skyscraper.”  
  
In the early days, tattooing Trindle was an adventure. Her tattoo concepts were bombastic, ambition, borderline impossible. Her body was a tapestry depicting her rich dating history. Working with her scratched an itch, reminded Skwisgaar why he started tattooing in the first place. Sure, spending time with her was a lot like having his chest cavity carved open and slowly filled with concrete. But Skwisgaar could tolerate a lot for the opportunity to flex his skills and creativity.  
  
Now, Trindle’s lithe body offered little purchase for big pieces. She came to Skwisgaar for quick fixes, touch-ups and cover-ups. Sometimes she would mix it up and ask for something from some cult show she was obsessed with. A show that hadn’t aired in half a decade; a show she _swore_ was _brilliant_ and would _change his life forever_. (Skwisgaar _did_ watch a few episodes, but it didn’t catch his interest. The characters were great, but the story was a _mess_ , and to be honest, the whole thing was way too violent for his tastes.) Nevertheless, the price of Trindle’s requests was not worth the emotional bandwidth required to _deal_ with her.  
  
Her eyes clawed hungrily up and down Skwisgaar’s front. “Are you wearing a crop top?”  
  
Unwilling to recap his farcical morning once more, Skwisgaar sighed and laid a hand on his bare belly.  
  
“Dat woulds _huuueeeeuuugghhhh_ appears to bes de case.”  
  
“You look like a roller skater on the Santa Monica boardwalk in 1978. I **love** it.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Is this a hot new trend you’re trying to get off the ground? Because I’m **super** on board.” Her eyes went black like a shark’s, and she touched her fingers to her chin, thoughtfully tonguing her lip ring. “You should convince that beefy roommate of yours to start wearing them.”  
  
“ ** _Okays Trindle_**.” He plopped into his chair with more force than intended. “Who ams de scumbag whats names we ams covering up todays?”  
  
“Oh it’s _not_ a cover up. I want a whole new piece.”  
  
Trindle began to unhook her massive bloodstone pendant. Skwisgaar had never seen her without it. She’d joked, more than once, if she ever removed it, her head would fall off. Most of her sternum was hidden by iron links and red gems.  
  
“I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on my past, all the break ups and the ghostings and the restraining orders. And I realized: I am not _defined_ by my past relationships. But! Those relationships shaped me into the **amazeballs** person I am today.”  
  
Skwisgaar raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.  
  
“I’m so **fucking** grateful for my exes! So, I want a tattoo that pays tribute to them,” she exhaled as the final latch came undone, “ _and_ to me.”  
  
The necklace fell away. Beneath, a somehow unmarred portion of her chest. A patch of virgin (so to speak) skin between the base of her neck and the top of her breasts.  
  
“This is what I want,” she continued. “I want a big, beautiful bouquet, with every flower representing one of my past loves. And in the center is a big, beautiful rose, representing _me_. And the whole thing symbolizes my–are you ready? Are you ready for this? Okay.–my _personal growth_.” She glowed with pride. “Good, right?”  
  
Skwisgaar rubbed his chin. “It’s...somet’ings.”  
  
Trindle rooted through her purse and withdrew a fistful of magazine clippings, flowers of all sizes and seasons.  
  
“I brought examples,” she said, slapping the papers onto Skwisgaar’s draft table. “I pulled them out of some free magazines I found. Can you believe doctors’ offices just leave these lying around?”  
  
Smoothing down the frayed edges of the matte pages, Skwisgaar frowned. There was no cohesion between them whatsoever, discordant colors and shapes bumping clumsily against one another. He shifted them around, seeking a pattern and finding none, an unsolvable Rubik’s Cube.  
  
“Heyyyyyy,” Trindle cooed, spinning in her chair to face Skwisgaar’s back. “You’re just as big a slut as me. How come we never hooked up?”  
  
“Cause I don’ts stick my dicks in crazy,” he mumbled.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
Her tone could have sliced open his throat.  
  
“Cauuuuuuse I don’t want to ruin our friendship!”  
  
“Aaaaaawwwwwwww.”  
  
She traced a heart on the small of his back. A chill ran up his spine.  
  
“I’ll be’s honest Trindle,” he pivoted so she could see his work, “Ams havings a hards time viz-eel-yule-eye-zing whats you wants.”  
  
She pouted. “So you can’t do it.”  
  
A commission of this size and complexity could net enough for next month’s rent. He wasn’t about to lose it.  
  
“I never saids dat! Looks.” He picked up a close portrait of azaleas. “De light sources ams differents in all dese pictures. If I does it based on dese pictures it wills come outs all weirds. If I’ms goings to does dis rights, I needs a real bouquet for reference.”  
  
“You should ask AbFab,” piped Pickles from the foyer.    
  
“Whos?”  
  
With one knee pressed into the rolling office chair, Pickles scooted into view, his other foot anchoring him to the tile. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder.  
  
“Abigail, th’florist? She an’ I always go out fer drinks afta Chamber of Cahmmerce meetin’s and talk shit about theet four-eyed weirdo who runs the grocery store. Heh.”  
  
Trindle clasped her hands beneath her chin, features widening like the face of an inflatable clown.  
  
“Do you think she can make my perfect bouquet? Also, is she prettier than me? You can tell me, I won’t get mad.”  
  
Pickles shrugged. “I don’t see th’harm in askin’.”  
  
Skwisgaar was not thrilled at the prospect of playing errand boy for the day. But for a major payout, and to get away from Trindle, he’d take on any fetch quest he could get. He leapt to his feet, snatched his jacket off the couch, and strode confidently toward the exit.  
  
“Wait, yer goin’ naow?” Pickles’s gaze trailed him, then flicked in a quick panic to Trindle. “Like, _naow_ naow?”  
  
“It ams just likes you always says, Pickle.” He paused in the threshold, a wry smirk curving his lips, and winked. “Gots to gives de customers whats dey wants.”  
  
Before the shop’s door clicked shut, Skwisgaar heard Trindle purr, “ _Hey, red_ ,” followed quickly by the office chair toppling to the floor, then Pickle’s screeching, “ **HEY SKWISGAAR WAIT UP**.”

  
**\---**

  
An order came in early that week, a big one. A bride called Abigail in an hysterical fit. Her eccentric aunt, who had promised to grow all the flowers for the event herself, revealed days out from the wedding that the only thing she succeeded in growing was poison oak. The bride needed _everything_ : centerpieces, boutonnieres, her own _bouquet_ . Fortunately, Abigail thrived in chaos. The final batch would be delivered to the venue just in time for the wedding that evening. All that was left were the bridesmaids’ bouquets and, of course, the bride’s.  
  
Working as a team, Abigail and Toki made quick work of the bridesmaids’ bouquets. Orange gerbera daisies, tightly bound by a bright yellow ribbon. Simple and seasonal. Abigail had promised when they were finished, Toki could work on the bride’s bouquet himself. In his excitement, and in his haste, he nicked himself several times.  
  
The meat of his pointer finger clipped between the blades of his scissors and he hissed. He pressed his hand to the inside of his apron pocket, so Abigail would not see the blood.  
  
“How dids dat blind dates you wents on goes?” He asked, partially out of curiosity but mostly as a distraction. Abigail groaned.  
  
“ _Horrible_ . She was _the worst_ . We had absolutely _nothing_ in common, and she spent the whole time complaining about the restaurant I’d picked. She made our waiter cry.”  
  
Toki rubbed his finger with his thumb. Finding it dry, he resumed his work.  
  
“I’m really sorries, Abigail,” he said, gingerly selecting another stem. “At least you don’ts gots to see her means face every agains.”  
  
“What are you talking about? I’m seeing her again next week.”  
  
Toki pursed his lips, a crease stitching the center of his brow. “Buts! You saids you hads a bads times! Why woulds you wants to spends _more_ times with her?”  
  
Abigail bit her lip.  
  
“Because she’s so, **so** hot.”  
  
“Oh, come _ons_ .”  
  
“I know, but you don’t understand how hot she is.”  
  
“You’re betters den dats.”  
  
“I’m really not. Did I show you her SelfieSnaps page? She went to Cabo San Lucas last month, and _ooof_ .”  
  
“But you don’ts _likes_ her! You shoulds be wif someones you _likes_ !” He avoided her gaze, focused on the velvety touch of the daisies’ petals. “If nots for youself, den...for de peoples who can’t does dat kinds of t’ings, right nows.”  
  
Toki stared into the singular black eye of the flower and contemplated the sudden weight in his chest. It wasn’t as though dating was a high priority of his; his focus was earning enough money to move out and move on. But he was not immune to loneliness.  
  
Abigail was quiet. Then, with a warm smile, she said, “Tell me about your dream guy.”  
  
“Abigaiiiiiil…”  
  
She waved off his whine. “You’ve heard me gush and vent about every girl in this town. It’s your turn. What do _you_ look for in a guy?”  
  
“I don’t know…”  
  
“Do you want someone adventurous? Someone dashing?” Completing a bouquet, she raised it high in the air with a twirl, then held it close and intimate to her chest. “Someone who can sweep you off your feet?”  
  
“I don’ts t’ink abouts dose kinds of t’ings!”  
  
“Then what _do_ you think about?”  
  
The true answer was Toki didn’t think about anything. Dwelling on chimerical fantasies of love and relationships would only cause him to lose sight of the task at hand: Survival. But Abigail had given him so much. He could play along just this once.  
  
“I wants...to bes wif someones who makes me happy.” Saying aloud the thing he’d held in his heart as long as he could remember flooded him with warmth. “Ands, whens I’m wif hims,” he took a deep breath, his desire precious and fragile, “it feels likes I’m homes.”  
  
Abigail held a benign expression as long as she could. When she could stand it no longer, she scrunched up her face in disgust.  
  
“I built my business around selling that saccharine _twue wuv_ crap, and even _I_ think that’s a little much.”  
  
Toki scooped up a ribbon he’d cut too short and hurled it in her direction. It fluttered ineffectively to the ground between them.  
  
“You’re _means_ !”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
He tried to sound tough, but couldn’t get his words out around his giggles. “I’m _glads_ you goings outs wif dat horrible goils, you _deserves_ each others!”  
  
“Alright lover boy.” She lifted an empty cardboard spool from the counter and waggled her wrist. “I’m out of florist tape. Mind running to the workroom and grabbing me some more?”  
  
Toki stuck out his tongue, but turned on his heel and did as he was asked. The workroom was a disaster (mostly thanks to Toki) and finding more tape would require some hunting. As he poked through various drawers, he heard the _tinkle_ of the front bell.  
  
“Ams you Abigails?”  
  
Toki slowed his search. He didn’t recognize the voice, but it was familiar in a way that triggered his fight or flight reflex.  
  
“Hey deres, I’m, _huegh_ …”  
  
“I know who you are,” she replied, casual and pleasant, but in such a tone Toki knew she had not looked up from her work.  
  
“Ams dat so?” The customer said, each word dripping with flirtation. Toki gagged, ignoring the faint _twinge_ in his guts at the tonal shift.  
  
Abigail didn’t miss a beat. “You work across the street from me, and you’re pretty hard to miss. Especially when you’re dressed like a waitress serving hot wings that will _definitely_ give me food poisoning.”  
  
“De shirt amn’ts–neverminds.” Toki snickered as he heard the customer’s bravado dissolve into frustration. “Pickle saids you coulds help me picks out some flowers? It’s for a clients.”  
  
“A gift?”  
  
“ _Nej_ , she wants to–holds on, lets me shows it to yous…”  
  
Toki had to crane his neck to hear the soft shuffle of paper.  
  
“She wants to takes all dese and puts dem togethers and makes a tattoo.”  
  
“Hmm. A lot of these are out of season. But we have a number of options that are of similar size and color.”  
  
“So’s you cans makes it work?”  
  
“I’m a little wrapped up in my current project, but my assistant would be happy to help.”  
  
Alone and unseen in the workroom, Toki beamed. Designing a wedding bouquet _and_ a custom order? In the same day? What could be better?  
  
“Cools.” The customer must have spotted the pod coffee maker beneath the glass hanging planters set, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Ams dis just for customers, orrrrrrrr…?”  
  
“It’s complimentary. Take as much as you’d like.”  
  
Toki waited to hear the whirr of the coffee maker booting up before making his entrance. He started, then, remembering his reason for entering the workroom in the first place, doubled back and recovered a roll of tape beneath a sheet of cellophane. The customer stood with his back to Toki, blond whips falling from his messy bun. The stranger turned to face him mid-sip, and when they made eye contact a spray of coffee erupted from his lips.  
  
The tape tumbled from Toki’s hand as he and this wretched stranger, the worst person in the world, exclaimed in perfect, furious unison, “ **_YOU?!?!?_ **”


	5. Chapter 5

The morning’s anger returned to Toki in a swift and tumultuous flood. How was this _monster_ , who had caused him so much misery in such a short period of time, _here_ ? Morbud Curiosity was his safe haven, his shelter from a cruel and uncaring world. How _dare_ he come in and muck everything up with his _attitude_ and his _selfishness_ and his _face_ . The spool of tape hadn’t even hit the ground before he and the  _monster_ erupted in indignant shrieking.  
  
Toki was so absorbed in his argument with The Worst Person He’d Ever Met, he did not notice the diminutive redhead who’d accompanied him until he sidled up to Abigail.  
  
“Hey AbFab,” he said, his tone as relaxed as his posture. He nodded in the brawl’s direction. “What the fuck?”  
  
Abigail’s soft features hardened with irritation. Reaching beneath the counter, she retrieved the spray bottle used to water the ferns. “That’s a _great_ question, P.”  
  
With several rapid, decisive squeezes of the trigger, Toki and The Worst Person were soaked in a fine but debilitating mist. They hissed like feral cats, but silenced.  
  
“ **O-KAY** .” Abigail holstered the bottle in the pocket of her apron. “Someone, please, _calmly_ , tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“ **_Dis ams de guys I tolds you abouts_ ** !” They said, at the same time. They whipped their heads around, at the same time. They scowled at each other, _at the same time_ . It seemed their fury had synced.  
  
Abigail rested her hand on the spray bottle’s nozzle.  
  
Toki thrust his finger into the soft meat of The Worst Person’s cheek. “Dis guy brokes my board!”  
  
Abigail’s World Destroying Stare made a bead on The Worst Person. Stronger men had been vaporized beneath that Look, but not _this_ asshole. To _this_ asshole, that Look didn’t even make a dent.  
  
“I nevers _touched_ yous stupid baby boards!” he huffed, batting Toki’s hand away. “De only raisin it flews into de streets ams cause _you_ wasn’t watching where yous was going!”  
  
“Dat’s not––”  
  
“Why ams _you_ mads? De only ones who shoulds be mads ams _me_ ! _Yous_ am de ones what crashed into mes ANDS!” He gestured down his body. “ **Dumped** my coffee all over mes!”  
  
“Is that so?” Toki felt the white hot heat of Abigail’s stare shifting to him. “Toki omitted that detail in his retelling.”  
  
His anger tripped down a flight of stairs. “Dids I?”  
  
“Pfft, dat don’ts surprise mes.” The Worst Person sneered down his impossibly long nose. “You’re de type of guys dat t’inks just cause he’s _sweet_ and _cute_ nobody’s ever gonna blames him for _anyt’ings_ .”  
  
Toki clenched his fists, released, clenched again. “At least I’m de types of guy dat has de _decencys_ to wears a _full shirts_ to works.”  
  
His nostrils flared horse-like, and he gripped at the fabric of his top with such force it popped a seam.  
  
“Dis! Ams your! **Faults!!!** ”  
  
As their squabbling resumed, Abigail raised the spray bottle once more, but Pickles laid his fingers on the top of her wrist.  
  
“Don’t bother, these two ain’t gonna shuddup,” he said, lowering her hand to the counter. “How’bout ya throw together onna yer arrangements _that douchebeeg_  can use fer a reference, and we’ll get outta yer hair.”  
  
Abigail’s freehand dragged down her face, and she exhaled through her fingers. She started toward the back. “ _Fine_ . Give me five minutes and then I can ring you up.”  
  
“Ring me up?” He scuttled around the counter and into the doorframe of the workroom to cut her off at the pass. “Wait, yer _chargin’_ me?”  
  
Her eyes narrowed as she took a slow step forward. “I can’t just _give_ my product away, what kind of business would that be?”  
  
Abigail had a few inches on Pickles, so he lifted to his tiptoes and stretched his arms to skim the top of the doorframe.  
  
“A business where we’re buds! A _buds_ niess!”  
  
“A custom order can cost as much as $85.”  
  
“$85?! Fer some plants? What kinda scam ya runnin’ here?”  
  
“ **_Excuse_ ** _me_ ?”  
  
“If yer chargin’ that much fer stuff ya can find growin’ on the side a’the highway it’s no wonder yer business is failing. No offense.”  
  
“ _You_ want to talk to _me_ about _my_ failing business? **Really** . You want to go there?”  
  
“Ab, c’mahn. You _know_ I can’t afford that.”  
  
“And _you_ know I can’t afford to lose a sale.”  
  
“Well then!” The muscles in his calves gave out, and he landed hard on his heels as his arms flopped marionette-like at his sides. “What th’ **fuck** are we suppose’ta **do** ?”  
  
“Oh my _God_ , **I’ll** pay for the bouquet.”  
  
All four turned in confusion to the source of the new voice, coming from just inside the entrance of the shop. A pale, dark-haired woman stood with her hands on her hips beside a display of Intention Crystals. Toki blinked, wondering how it was possible a vampire had come inside without an invitation.  
  
“I mean, it’s for _my_ tattoo, after all,” she continued. “That’s, like, the most obvious solution, isn’t it?”  
  
The tightness in Abigail’s jaw loosened. She gathered all her hair in one hand and swept it around to cascade down her left shoulder. “That’s your client?”  
  
“Abby, I know ya love a challenge, but I’m tellin’ ya as a friend, _stay away_ from that one,” Pickles muttered from the side of his mouth. “She’s _not worth it_ .”  
  
Abigail smirked, then popped one button of her polo with her thumb.  
  
“I’m just saying, it seems like all this is a _lot_ of yelling over a _very_ low-stakes situation,” the client said. “Don’t get me wrong, I **love** screaming about self-manufactured drama. That’s like, _my thing_ . But I have an aerial hot yoga class in an hour, and I’d like to wrap this up.”  
  
Pickles glanced back and forth between the client and the rest of the group. “If that works fer ya, that works fer me.”  
  
“Oh, it _definitely_ works for me.” Abigail beamed, lightly spinning one of the unused daisies from the bridesmaids bouquets in her fingers. “Hi. I’m Abigail.”  
  
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiii, I’m Trindle. Your shop is _so_ cute. And you’re, like.” She paused, the pleasantness bleeding from her expression like the life of a hunted deer, still smiling but with no joy behind it. “ **Really pretty.** ”  
  
The Worst Person, in a tizzy because no one was paying attention to him, heaved a demonstrative sigh and flung his noodly arms in the air.  
  
“Whatevers, do whats you wants, calls me laters to sets up de appointments, I’m outs of heres.” He turned to Abigail, sporting a genuine smile. “It was nice to meets yous.” Then he turned to Toki, wearing the same, sincere smile. “Go fucks yourself.”  
  
Toki opened his mouth to retort but The Worst Person had already departed, knocking his shoulder into Toki’s as he passed. He stomped out of the shop and, hopefully, out of Toki’s life, forever.  
  
“Byeeeeeee Skwisgaar,” Trindle trilled, flitting her fingers at his retreating back, “love yooooooooouuuuuu.”  
  
Skwisgaar? What a stupid name _._ Was he named after a salad bar?  
  
But he couldn’t contemplate his hatred for long. Trindle had him in her sights. He slapped on his best customer service grin and braced for impact.  
  
“ **You** ,” she said, a predatory glint in her eye, “must be **my man** .”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Trindle exited the workroom, a robust, eclectic bouquet in one arm, the other snaked around Toki’s bicep.  
  
“Thank you _soooooooooo_ much for your help. This bouquet looks _exactly_ how it looks in my brain.”  
  
Toki’s cheeks hurt from smiling, but he did not relent. “It was no troubles at alls!”  
  
“You’re so precious I can’t _stand_ it,” she cooed as she clenched him tighter. “I want to eat you alive.”  
  
“Awwwww.”  
  
“I just wanna tear open your thorax and lay all my eggs inside you to incubate, you’re such a sweetie.”  
  
“Ha haaaaaaaa, whats?”  
  
“Hey, Red,” she diverted her attention Pickles, still hanging around chatting with Abigail instead of going back to his _own_ store, for _some reason_ . “Mind doing me the teensiest, tiniest of favors and taking this back to the shop for me? I would, _buuuuuuuut_ .”  
  
She offered no reason why she could not complete this task. Pickles shrugged.  
  
“Eh, sure. I should head out, anyway. Skwis’ll wanna sketch out a million-billion options fer ya, he’s kinda…”  
  
“A perfectionist?” Trindle chirped. Toki bit the inside of his cheeks, but said nothing.  
  
“I was gonna say _anal_ , but yeeah, that works too, heh.”  
  
“Awesomesauce.” Releasing Toki from her clutches, she sauntered backwards to the entrance. “Skwisgaar should have it drawn up by tomorrow, right?”  
  
“Actually, it’s prahbly better if you give him a coupla days–”  
  
“Great! I’ll come by tomorrow! See you then, _byyyyeeeeeeee_ .”  
  
But before her black-manicured hands could touch the knob, the front door flew open, and a harried, heaving Murderface bulldozed in.  
  
“Guysch,” he wheezed, “ _terrible_ newsch!”  
  
“Why’re ya outta breath? We know ya drove here. We can _see_ yer van.”  
  
Murderface hunched, balancing his hands on his knees. “I’m out of breath. Becausche I _ran_ here.”  
  
“From _across th’street_ ?”  
  
“Picklesch, will you _schut up_ I’m trying to tell you that **the community center isch--** oh.”  
  
Murderface’s panting stopped. As he stood to meet Trindle's gaze, her expression recalibrated. Gone was the rhapsodic enthusiasm, replaced by a distant neutrality. An ice sculpture at a middling wedding venue.  
  
“William.” She said flatly.  
  
“Elizabeth. It’sch been a while.”  
  
“I guess it has.” A beat. “You look good.”  
  
“Let’sch not do thisch, Elizabeth.”  
  
A flash in her eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared. He stepped aside, opening the door as he did so, and without another word she glided out. Murderface watched her form slip into the throngs of people clustered along the sidewalk, then disappear.  
  
The silence that followed was only broken by Abigail’s betrayed, bewildered, “What the **fuck** ?”  
  
“Let me give you a piece of advice, boysch,” he said wistfully, stroking at a beard he did not possess, “NEVER schtick your dick in crazy.”

  
**\---**  

  
A week passed without incident. Skwisgaar had to sacrifice another night’s sleep to craft a satisfactory design for Trindle’s tattoo. But the work had been worth it. The piece came out beautiful, _of course_ , and the extra practice drawing flowers meant he was prepared when three new clients came in--all women, all requesting floral tattoos. Nothing complicated. One woman wanted a single flower included in Trindle’s bouquet, and Skwisgaar had no problem creating a flawless replication. The other two were simple enough he was comfortable working off photos he’d found on the internet. _Anything_ was better than having to endure the whiny pissant at the shop across the street.  
  
The unexpected windfall also meant Pickles could, as promised, hire Nathan to stand guard in case Skwisgaar’s mother made an unwelcome appearance. The pay wasn’t much, but Nathan never worried about money the way Skwisgaar did. Despite his shoddy employment record, Nathan always managed to scrape together _juuuuuuust_ enough to get by. Still, unlike Skwisgaar, Nathan had a safety net. If, worst case scenario, they lost the apartment, Nathan could always move back in with his parents. Skwisgaar _loved_ Nathan’s parents. His mom took them on Target runs; his dad fixed all their appliances. As much as Nathan grumbled about how _embarrassing_ it would be to move back, to go home to people who loved, supported and were happy to be with you? That was the dream. Skwisgaar never had that. Skwisgaar would never have that.    
  
Barring several months of couch surfing after dropping out, Skwisgaar had only lived with Nathan, and his mother. (During his brief stint in college, he had wanted to live in the dorms. But his mother didn’t, and so he didn’t.) After securing his own space for the first time, he naively ( _stupidly_ ) believed he would have all the time in the world to dedicate to his _real_ passion: Painting. He had grandiose fantasies of whiling hours away before his easel, in a vast sunlit room, breaking only to fall into bed with his gorgeous and devoted lover.  
  
But then the bills started rolling in. And he needed a second job. And a third job. And his painting became more and more infrequent. And then they stopped.  
  
Skwisgaar slouched on the couch in the foyer of Please Ink Responsibly, scribbling sketches to calm his nerves. The cash from Trindle, Charles and the other women’s sessions that week was a boon, but it wasn’t enough. It was _never_ enough. The nursing home scaled back his hours--budget cuts--and his next catering gig wasn’t for another month. Perhaps sensing the waves of anxiety rolling off him during their session, Charles (unprompted, gently _)_ , mentioned requiring assistance filing some paperwork for Offdensen Electrics. A charitable offer, a needed offer. But an offer, if accepted, meant Skwisgaar would be traveling from the tattoo parlor, to Offdensen’s, to the nursing home, to the tattoo parlor, without a moment to spare for rest, and with his mother’s specter always over his shoulder, impassively observing his struggle and asking, _what’s the point of any of this_ ?  
  
The lead of Skwisgaar’s pencil snapped on the sketchpad, leaving a shiny grey blight in the middle of his portrait.  
  
The shop phone rang and Nathan, groaning, set aside his game console and rose to answer it.  
  
“Hello?...Yeah....Okay, bye.”  
  
He slammed the phone back into the receiver just as Pickles returned from the back alley for a smoke break.  
  
“Who wuz that?"  
  
“Somebody asking if this is the place to get flower tattoos,” Nathan replied as he resumed his game. Pickles poked his tongue at the inside of his cheek.  
  
“Huh. That’s th’fourth one this week. Didja rememba to give our address this time?”  
  
The dramatic orchestration of Nathan’s game paused. He set the console in his lap, and put his head in his hands.  
  
“ _No._ Damn it. God. **Damn** it, _no_ . Ngh. **_Fuck_ ** **.** Fuck, man. **Damn** it. God.”  
  
Pickles clapped his hand on Nathan's shoulder as he crossed to the front window. “S’alright. You’ll git em next time, bud.”  
  
Skwisgaar tossed aside his spent pencil, pulling a fresh one from behind his ear, and resumed sketching. Pickles stood at the front window, hands planted on his lower back.  
  
“Hey, there’s Abigail, standin’ outside her shop,” he said brightly. “Naow she’s wavin’ at me. I’ll wave back.” He did so. “She’s wavin’ even _harda_ naow. Heh. Y’know what _that_ means.”  
  
Skwisgaar and Nathan exchanged a confused glance. Pickles chuckled, holding his chin like an anime villain.  
  
“We gaht ourselves a wave-off, boys.”  
  
“Ams dat a t’ing?”  
  
Nathan shook his head _no_ .  
  
“Waow, she’s _really_ wavin’ naow. I’ll wave harda.” He gripped the elbow of his waving arm and flailed wildly. “Naow she’s usin’ _both_ arms _!_ And she’s bendin’ em toward her bahdy! Ha! Nice try! That’s not a wave at _all!_ ”  
  
Nathan played his game. Skwisgaar sketched.  
  
“Naow she’s grabbin’ at her hair, that’s _definitely_ not a wave, I think I gaht this one locked up! Ah! She went inside! I win the wave-off!” He raised his tired arms in triumph. “Cahn _grat_ tulate me!!!”  
  
“Have you been drinking?”  
  
“Only alcohol.”  
  
The phone rang once more. Nathan answered.  
  
“Hello?...Yeah...Hold on…”  
  
He engulfed the speaker in his massive palm.  
  
“It’s Abigail. She wants me to put her on speaker.”  
  
He pressed a button on the keypad, and Abigail’s voice rang out:  
  
“Come over here. You **idiot** .”  
  
Moments later, Skwisgaar and Pickles stood once more at the counter of Morbud Curiosity, watching Abigail scroll through her phone.  
  
“Have you seen Trindle’s Gram-A-Lam?”  
  
“What’s that, some kinda sandwich?” Pickles said.  
  
“It’s a photo sharing app.”  
  
“App...etizer?”  
  
“App...lication?” She squinted. “On the Internet?”  
  
“Y’mean that series of toobes? Psh, I’m pretty sure it’s justa fad.”  
  
“My God, you’re so old.”  
  
“ _Hey_ .”  
  
“Anyway.”  
  
Finding what she’d been searching for, she flipped her phone to show them. On screen, a copious amount of Trindle’s cleavage, lightly filtered, with her new ink in center frame.  
  
“She’s been _blowing up_ ever since she posted about her new tattoo. Look at these comments!” She scrolled through a ceaseless stream of heart and kissy-face emojis. “Everyone wants to know where she got it done.”  
  
“Whoa, really?” Pickles snatched the phone with both hands and held it up to his mouth. “INTERNET,” he shouted into the screen, “TELL EVERYONE SHE WENT T’PLEASE INK RESPAHNSIBLY. PLEASE. THENK YA. DON’T KILL ME. ”  
  
Abigail plucked her phone from his grip. “People have been coming in asking if we did the Trindle bouquet all week.”  
  
Skwisgaar stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, wondering why his presence was requested.  
  
“Naow that ya mention it,” Pickles said, “there’s been’an uptick a flower tattoo requests over at our place.”  
  
That was the response Abigail had been looking for.  
  
“I think there’s a mutually beneficial business opportunity here.”  
  
Pickles raised his eyebrows. She leaned back toward the work room.  
  
“Toki! Can you come out here, please!”  
  
Toki? That was his name? Did he unlock doors with his feet? So dumb.  
  
The brat emerged, holding a spray of baby’s breath, _appropriate_ . Upon eyeing Skwisgaar, his amiable expression dropped, knuckles whitening as he squeezed the stems. Skwisgaar straightened to his full height, his only true defense to stave off a fist-fight.  
  
“I have a proposal,” Abigail said. “A joint promotion. People come in here, get a beautiful custom bouquet _at a discount_ . Then they go to _you,_ and have that same bouquet made into a one-of-a-kind, _reasonably priced_ tattoo. We both raise our profiles on social media, we both make money.” She held her palms pressed tight together beneath her chin. “What do you think?”  
  
“I don’ts know…” Toki demurred.  
  
“No ways,” Skwisgaar brayed. “We ams a _dar_ k and _brutals_ tattoo studios, spe-seal-lie-zeng _only_ in _dark_ and _brutals_ tattoos. No **ways** Pickle ams on boards wif–”  
  
“If we’re gonna sell this,” Pickles scratched at the coarse hairs on the underside of his chin, “we gotta offer a _real_ personalized experience, y’know? Make these idiots feel special.”  
  
Abigail clapped. “Oh! What if they worked directly with Toki to make their bouquets?”  
  
Toki grimaced. “Hang ons…”  
  
“Yeah! And while they’re doin’ that, Skwisgaar can sit in an’sketch out ideas, so they can give’im input!”  
  
“Dey cans gives to me _whats_ .”  
  
“Customers get a hands-on experience designing _both_ elements, so they feel part of the _creative process_ .”  
  
“Fuck! That’s so _good_ AbFab!”  
  
“I’m nots to sures…”  
  
“We need to get you on social. And we need to update your website, did you make that thing on Geocities?”  
  
“Is Geocities naht cool?”  
  
“Cans anyones hear mes? Ams I a ghost?” Skwisgaar paused, stricken. “ _How dids I die_ .”  
  
“Perfect!” Abigail grinned. “We’re all in agreement.”  
  
“I’m nots!” said Toki.  
  
“Me neithers,” said Skwisgaar. Finally, something they agreed on.  
  
“Toki, listen.” She held out her hand to him, and he meekly took it in his own. “If this is successful, we’ll have enough money to finally open The Greenhouse. And _you’ll_ have the money to _finally_ move out!”  
  
So on top of everything else, this asshole _also_ had a set of parents willing to house him. Typical.  
  
“Yeah, and Skwisgaar, think about _this_ .” Pickles beaconed Skwisgaar to lean down, and when he halved himself to his height, Pickles threw his arm across his shoulders. “I’m yer fucking boss, and I’m tellin’ ya t’do it, so yer gonna do it.”  
  
He slapped him, hard, in the chest, and the air went out of Skwisgaar’s lungs.  
  
“So it’s settled.” Abigail released her hand from Toki’s and extended it to Pickles. “We’re in business.”  
  
Pickles smiled from the side of his mouth and grabbed Abigail’s hand. Disbelieving, Skwisgaar glared long and hard at their clasped hands. Then, he glanced above it, just so he could shoot daggers at his new coworker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathan's playing StarFox 64 on the 3DS. This information is in no way relevant to the plot, I just want you, THE READER, to know.


	6. Chapter 6

Toki worried at the cuff of his grey waffle-knit shirt. The cold was a convenient excuse to hide the evidence of his father’s “private sermons;” come summer he’d have to get creative. If his math was correct, it would be another eight months before his secret nest egg was enough. Enough for a security deposit, three months’ rent, groceries, utilities, furnishings. Enough to buy his own clothes. Enough to start a life that was _his_ .  
  
Abigail had offered, more than once, to front him the remaining balance (“a _loan_ ,” she’d lied). Each time, Toki refused. He couldn’t be responsible for further delaying The Greenhouse’s opening. But his true reason was simpler than that. He wanted, _needed_ , to do it for himself.  
  
Toki did not see himself as a victim, but much of his life was controlled by circumstance. Born wrong, raised to atone for that wrongness. For a long time, he believed the life his parents laid out for him was the only one available. It was not until he first ventured into town on his own––his father’s misbegotten punishment--did he realize his life was his own to shape. It was important to him to claw his way out of his situation, and build the life he _wanted_ , on his own terms.  
  
To do that, he needed to make this “joint promotion” a success. Which meant he needed to get along with the dick from the tattoo parlor. Which was easy, at the moment, because said dick was _late_ .  
  
Fortunately, the first client of this godless endeavor was a gimme. A friend of Abigail’s, and a frequent customer. An event coordinator for City Hall, the person who organized all the municipal 5Ks, craft fairs, concerts, fireworks displays, rallies, what have you. A person too nice to mention that her appointment was for _8:15_ , and currently it was _8:20_ .  
  
“I’m so sorry about the Harvest Festival contract,” Rachel said, laying a hand atop Abigail’s. “You deserved to win that bid.”  
  
Abigail smiled with only lips and squeezed Rachel’s fingers. “That’s sweet of you to say.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”  
  
“I know."  
  
“It’s _so_ frustrating. We have all these _amazing_ small businesses in town, why wouldn’t the council want to showcase that?”  
  
Toki, sweeping on the opposite end of the shop, chirped, “Dat’s what _I’ves_ been sayings!”  
  
Rachel giggled, then continued.  
  
“The mayor always pushes to use local vendors for local events, but always gets cut off at the knees.” She plopped her elbows on the counter and dropped her chin atop her fists. “Can I tell you my theory?”  
  
Abigail mirrored her pose. “I _love_ your theories.”  
  
“There’s this one councilman, an older gentleman. He doesn’t say much, but when he speaks, people listen to him. He’s always able to whip up votes against _anything_ the mayor proposes. He claims using outside vendors keeps costs down. But I’ve _seen_ the expense reports and the savings are minimal.”  
  
“So what’s your theory?”  
  
“I don’t think this councilman is working in the town’s best interests.” Rachel’s fingers fanned out to climb the sides of her face. “ _I_ think. This is personal.”  
  
Abigail grinned as she folded her arms over themselves. “And what makes you think the _notoriously_ closed-off mayor has _any_ sort of personal relationships?”  
  
Rachel rose and twisted her waist as she shrugged, her mouth masked by her shoulder.  
  
“I don’t!” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “That’s why it’s a _theory_ .”  
  
Abigail snorted a laugh Toki had never heard before. He moved out of Rachel’s line of sight, then _gawked_ , openly and pointedly, at Abigail.  
  
“Changing subjects!” Rachel said, flicking her wrists in the air. “I’m _so_ excited about your new promotion. Whenever I have a crummy day, buying one of your bouquets cheers me right up! Now I’ll always have a reason to be cheerful, because I’ll always have a reminder of _you_ .”  
  
Toki gawked _more_ pointedly, somehow. Abigail ignored him.  
  
“When can we get started?” Rachel asked.  
  
“Just as soons as _Skwisgaar_ gets heres,” Toki replied, knocking the broom into the leg of a display table.  
  
“Since we have a few minutes,” Rachel turned toward the back, “I’d like to use the ladies room, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Abigail gestured in the affirmative, returning Rachel’s warm smile as she glided away. She was still smiling long after the bathroom door clicked shut when she said, “For the _million-billionth_ time, we are _just friends_ .”  
  
Toki slammed his broom to the ground. “How cans you bes so blinds?!”  
  
Abigail’s eyes ticked down to the fallen broom. Toki quickly scooped it up, then shuffled to the supply closet.  
  
“Rachel is nice to _everyone_ .”  
  
“Dat wasn’t just beings nice!” The overstuffed closet refused to close. Toki put his weight against the door and pushed until there was no more pushback. “Why ams you wastings your times wif dese terrible goils whens dis _wonderful_ goils who _likes_ you ams _rights in fronts of yous_ ?”  
  
“We are _just friends_ !”  
  
“Toki t’inks you’re beings _willfully obstinates_ cause you’re afraids of real emotional intimacy.”  
  
Abigail’s gaze narrowed. “Who taught you what those words mean?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“Look,” she sighed, “even if Rachel were into me--which she’s not!--transitioning from friendship to a relationship is...delicate. Why risk ruining something stable for the unknown?”  
  
Toki pretended not to hear the terrible **crash** within the closet. He’d deal with that later.  
  
“But whats if you winds up wif somet’ings better dan you evers expected, ands you nevers woulds have founds it if you nevers tooks de risk?”  
  
She scoffed. “Where do you get this stuff?”  
  
Toki held up a copy of _I Won’t Say It (At Least Out Loud): 1,001 Ways to Tell You’re in Love_ , the author name hidden by a bright red 20 percent off sticker. Abigail frowned.  
  
“I’ve _got_ to be more selective about my merchandise.”  
  
A rush of cold air swept through the shop as the front door swung open, allowing Skwisgaar to make his dramatic, belated appearance. Dressed in a loose-fitted powder blue top (and matching pants!!!), he yawned around his fist and made a bee-line for the coffee maker. No greeting, no apology. Toki guessed he should be thankful he’d come _at all_ .  
  
“Looks who finally decides to shows ups!” Toki snapped. “I sees you still don’ts haves any idea what ‘work app-pra-pro-bates attire’ means. _Nice pajamas_ .”  
  
The coffee maker roared to life.  
  
“First ofs alls,” Skwisgaar said, staring resolutely at the steady stream into his cup, “dese amn’ts pajamas, dey’re medicals scrubs. I works nights ats de nursing homes on de other sides of towns. Ands _second_ of ly, I hads to comes straight _heres_ from _dere_ cause dey switched mine shifts at de last minute. _Idiot_ .”  
  
Toki crossed his arms. “You knews you hads to be heres first t’ings in de mornings. You _coulds_ have gotten someone to covers for yous.”  
  
“Ja, I _coulds_ have, if my goals was to make **zero** monies and _nots_ pays any of my bills ands gets _kicked outs_ of my apartments ands _dies in a ditch_ .” The coffee maker sputtered to its conclusion. Dumping four torn-open sugar packets into his cup, Skwisgaar glanced over his shoulder and fixed Toki with a devastating glower. “Nots alls of us has de _luxury_ of livings wif mommy ands daddy.”  
  
A bolt of fury struck Toki right between the eyes. How _dare_ this pompous jackass act like he knew _anything_ about Toki’s home life. He opened his mouth to retort but, thinking better of it, closed it again. Skwisgaar didn’t need to know where Toki came from. Skwisgaar didn’t _deserve_ to know.  
  
The sound of something firm hitting the countertop made them snap to attention, and both flinched when they saw Abigail once more gripping her spray bottle.  
  
“If either of you pull this shit in front of the customers,” she said, finger curling around the trigger, “I will _end you_ .”  
  
Moments later, Toki presented a cylindrical vase to Rachel, sitting beside Skwisgaar at one of the back room’s work stations.  
  
“Sos!” he said brightly, his animosity quashed somewhere beneath his guts. “What ams you looking fors?”  
  
Rachel laid her hands flat to her lap as though preparing to say something she’d rehearsed many times. “I’d like to get something in honor of my grandmother.”  
  
“Dat’s lovely! Are de twos of you close?”  
  
“We were.” Her exuberant smile dimmed. “She passed, recently.”  
  
“I’m so sorries.”  
  
He moved to lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, but balked when he saw Skwisgaar’s hand settled in the exact space he was moving toward. Annoyance flared, but he swallowed it down.  
  
“Thank you,” she said, and her high spirits returned. “She and I always joked about getting matching tattoos. So when Abigail told me about this promotion, I thought, _it’s fate_ ! It’s like my grandmother reached down from heaven to bring the three of us together.”  
  
“How kinds of her,” Skwisgaar mumbled dryly. Toki drew a sharp breath and refocused his energy on Rachel.  
  
“Tells me abouts your grandmothers.”  
  
“Well, one thing you need to know about my grandmother is she was an artist. She’d never call herself that, she was very modest. She loved drawing, sculpting, painting--watercolors, mostly. Oh! Every Christmas she gave each of us cousins a personalized ornament she hand-carved _herself_ . She was _so_ thoughtful, and smart, and always ready to host, no matter the occasion--”  
  
As Rachel went on, Toki ducked in and out of the large floral coolers that held the majority of Morbud Curiosity’s supply, plucking what was needed to shape the image that had formed in his mind. This was his favorite part: The moment before the Presentation. The anticipation of seeing a customer’s delighted face as he gave them _exactly_ what they wanted. The excitement knowing he was about to make someone very, very happy. It thrilled him every time.  
  
He glimpsed back continuously with a grin to let Rachel know he was still listening intently. Skwisgaar, meanwhile, did not once look up from his sketchpad.  
  
“Okays!” Toki said at last, placing the yellow and purple bouquet into the vase. “As you cans sees, I picked outs daffodils ands irises. De irises seem-bowl-lize wisdom, ands de daffodils represents creativity ands memory. It ams striking buts nots show-y, just likes yous grandmothers.” He bit down a proud smile. “What does you t’inks?”  
  
Rachel clutched her hands over her heart. “I _love_ it! It’s so _her_ .” Her eyes went over Toki’s shoulder, and she pointed to one of the coolers behind him. “Would we be able to add a few of those small white daisies? She taught me how to make a daisy chain when I was a little girl.”  
  
“Abso _lute_ lys we cans does dat!”  
  
As he filled out the bouquet, he looked once more to Skwisgaar. Huddled over his sketchpad, bored expression hanging off his angular features, his fingers flew with incomprehensible speed across the paper. He’d barely said one word since they’d started, content to leave all the customer service niceties up to _Toki_ .  
  
Toki could only take so much.  
  
“Does you has anyt’ings you wants to contributes?” he said with more venom than intended.  
  
“Ja,” Skwisgaar answered, and flipped his sketchpad around.  
  
Oh.  
  
Damn it.  
  
On the page was not one, not two, but _six_ drawings, all different angles, all perfectly rendered. Several shades of yellow, purple, green and blue were scribbled in the corner. (When had he taken out those colored pencils?) They looked not like rough sketches, but fully-formed _designs_ .  
  
Toki would be impressed if he weren’t so irked.  
  
“Oh my goodness,” Rachel gasped. “These are _beautiful_ .”  
  
“How you does dat so fast?” Toki said, not a little bit incensed.  
  
Skwisgaar cracked his back, a smug smirk crawling across his plush lips.  
  
“Somes haves desksribsed mes as de fastest sketch artists in de woird. Woulds I deskribsed myself dat ways? Eh, I don’t knows. Buts I wills says, de deskscribtor ams _huuuueeeghhhh_ nots inaccurates.  
  
“These are absolutely incredible,” Rachel said, fingers glancing over one of the images. “They look just like the real thing!”  
  
“I don’ts knows if I woulds says _dat_ ,” Toki said, waving his arms around his now-forgotten bouquet. “Considerings de real t’ings is right _heres_ .”  
  
“Sorry it tooks me so longs.” With the smallest bit of validation, Skwisgaar’s whole demeanor changed. Attentive, engaged, enthusiastic. God, _this guy_ . “I wanteds to makes sure yous had options.”  
  
“So considerate!”  
  
“ _Toki_ is--!”  
  
“If you wants, I cans colors it ins a ways dat look likes a watercolor paints-ting.”  
  
“What a great idea!”  
  
“Yeahs, sures, anyway backs to de bouquets--”  
  
“Where ams you t’inkings of puttings it?”  
  
“It has to be somewhere I can easily conceal when I’m at work, but also somewhere I can see whenever I want. I thought on my arm?” At Skwisgaar’s skeptical expression, she said, “Unless you have another suggestion?”  
  
Skwisgaar gingerly ripped the page from its spiral confines, then placed it against Rachel’s bicep.  
  
“De t’ing ams, you has such _beyooteefuls_ slender arm, de design woulds has to bes very small, or has to wrap arounds.” He bent the page to demonstrate. “It woulds be betters to puts it ons a flat surface.” His gaze clicked down to her thighs. “May I’s?”  
  
She nodded. With a tender precision honed through repeated application, Skwisgaar pushed up Rachel’s skirt with the tips of his fingers. His touch never lingered for too long, keeping the skirt low enough to not be lurid, but high enough that Toki had to look at the fluorescent light overhead to distract himself from the ball of heat rolling at the base of his throat.  
  
“If you puts it heres,” he purred, “you cans keeps it hidden ats work wifouts compromising any ofs de details. Plus, if its positioned ins a certain ways, all dese cute leedle freckles of yours can looks like dey ams bits of dirt, likes you just plucked dis bunch from your grandmother’s gardens.”  
  
“Oh, I _love_ that! That’s so…” Her brow furrowed. “Wait, I don’t remember mentioning that my grandmother was a gardener. How did you know that?”  
  
Toki watched as the wind-up toy monkey in Skwisgaar’s brain screeched to a halt.  
  
“As a fellows artist,” he said, piecing his answer together in real time, “I haves _euuuuyyyyggggggghhhhhh_ a certains _feelings_ abouts dese sorts of t’ings.”  
  
Right. Toki was sure Rachel’s grandmother gave him _lots_ of feelings. _Intimate_ feelings. Felt exclusively by his penis.  
  
Rachel beamed. “Oh, that makes sense!”  
  
No it didn’t.  
  
“I need to get to the office,” she said, checking her watch. “Can we set up an appointment later today? Maybe after six?”  
  
Skwisgaar rose. “Whensever you ams ready to gets you tattoo, I ams ready to does de tattooing.”  
  
Rachel tittered behind her hand. “Thank you both so much for all your help today. You guys make a great team!”  
  
A charge pulsed through the room when Toki and Skwisgaar locked eyes.  
  
“Wellllllls, de t’ings about teams ams,” Skwisgaar said, icy eyes sparking. “dere’s always one player puttings ins more works dan everyone else.”  
  
“Is dat sos?” Toki gritted.  
  
“Someone gots to bes de LeBrons, someone gots to bes de Kevin Loves.”  
  
Toki didn’t understand that reference, but it was spoken in such a cadence he knew to take it for an insult.  
  
“Ands de _other_ t’ings abouts teams,” he blurted before he could stop himself, “is sometimes dey dies in terrible axseeidents and dere bodies are **_mangled beyonds recognition_ ** .”  
  
Skwisgaar and Rachel regarded him with blank, slightly horrified faces, and he knew at once that may have been a _touch_ too far.  
  
Skwisgaar turned to Rachel. “Lets me walks you tos your cars.”  
  
Cradling her bouquet, Rachel allowed herself to be guided out, Skwisgaar’s hand between her shoulder blades steering her. Out of sight from both her and Abigail, with his available arm Skwisgaar reached around his own back, and flipped his middle finger in Toki’s general direction. Toki retaliated by raising _both_ his middle fingers. Then, realizing Skwisgaar could see neither of them, crushed a fallen daisy in his fist, fuming.  
  
Abigail poked her head through the work room’s threshold. She lifted two feeble thumbs up. “Teamwork!”  
  
“Abigail, I _can’ts_ works wif dat guys. He sucks!”  
  
“Yeah, he kinda does,” she conceded. “But you know what _doesn’t_ suck? Making money. Which you’re about to do. Right now. Because your next client is here.”  


**\---**

  
The promotion had been up and running for a month, and business was booming. With Please Ink Responsibly’s new website and social media presence, customers were actually able to _find_ the shop. The appointment books had never been so full. Everything was going so well!  
  
Too bad the success hadn’t made working with Toki any easier.  
  
“He ams so _annoyings_ ,” Skwisgaar said as he finished rubbing salve into Charles’s latest back piece. “Has you mets dis guy?”  
  
“I have not,” Charles said evenly. “But you talk about him so often, it feels as though I have.”  
  
“He’s always like, **_mreeeehhhh I dids de bare minimums, gives to mes a cookie and tells me I’ms a good boys_ ** , you knows? Ands den like? He gets mad ats _mes_ ? For being betters at _my_ jobs den he ams at _his_ ? Like dat’s my faults?”  
  
“Seems like he’s been on your mind a lot.”  
  
“He make me _crazy_ ! I close mine two eye to goes to sleep at nights and alls I see ams hims face, complainings.”  
  
Skwisgaar tapped Charles’s ribs to alert him he was finished, and handed him a mirror as he rose. Charles crossed to the floor-length mirror, then held the hand mirror aloft to admire Skwisgaar’s handiwork.  
  
“Professional conflicts can be difficult to navigate,” he said. “I’m embroiled in a conflict with one of my--” he paused, his eyes growing steely--“ _associates_ , right now.”  
  
Finding the bandages in the depths of his work station, Skwisgaar snorted. “What, you gets in a fights wif ones of your lamps?”  
  
Charles’s reflected gaze met Skwisgaar’s. “Offdensen Electrics is _far_ from my only business venture.”  
  
Skwisgaar hummed, measured out the fabric required to cover Charles’s piece, then laid it gently against his skin.  
  
“In my experience,” Charles continued. “A lasting working relationship must be built on common ground. You and Toki should have a conversation, _peace talks_ , if you will. Hash out all the particulars, air all your grievances. Perhaps you’ll find you’re more similar than you think.”  
  
“Uh-huh. And whats if dese ‘peace talks’ fails.”  
  
Charles shrugged his shirt over his shoulders.  
  
“Then you find the thing that he loves, exploit it for the weakness that it is, and use it to **_destroy him_ ** .”  
  
Skwisgaar laughed, but Charles’s neutral expression remained unchanged.  
  
“What’s so funny?”  
  
A spike of cold clambered up Skwisgaar’s spine. Dropping out of college was the best decision he ever made. He did _not_ have the temperment for business.  
  
“I’ll, uhhhhhhhhh, waits for yous ats de register."  
  
“Have you tried punching?” Nathan called as Skwisgaar slipped through the dividing curtain into the foyer. Charles followed soon after, shirt neatly buttoned and suit jacket hung over his arm. “I address most of my issues, emotional _and_ physical, with punching.”  
  
Charles nodded. “Punching _is_ an inelegant yet effective method of conflict resolution.”  
  
“Yeah! This guy gets it! At least 70 percent of my problems were resolved by punching.”  
  
“That seems... _improbably_ high.”  
  
“Hey, I never said they were resolved _well_ .”  
  
Remembering how Toki one-armed a 50 pound bag of topsoil as though he were lifting a teacup yorkie, Skwisgaar said, haughtily, “I ams a lovers, nots a fighters.”  
  
Smirking, Nathan leaned in and pinched at the soft underside of Skwisgaar’s noodly arms. “Right, that’s _definitely_ by choice and not by necessity.”  
  
“ _Heys_ .” Skwisgaar squirmed out of his range like a flopping fish on a dock.  
  
Without looking at the balance on the register, Charles handed Skwisgaar a wad of bills.  
  
“In _my_ experience,” Nathan said, returning his attention to Charles, “problems that can’t be solved vis a vie punching can be solved by getting in a guy’s face and saying--”  
  
He drew up on Charles close enough the ends of their noses grazed, and jutting his finger into the center of his chest, he intoned in his deepest voice:  
  
“-- **_whatever you do, don’t fall in love with me_ ** .”  
  
Charles took a step back, pushing up his glasses, adjusting a tie that need not be adjusted.  
  
“People leave you alone after you do that,” Nathan said. “You should try it.”  
  
“Well,” Charles cleared his throat, “conflict resolution comes in many forms.”  
  
The truth was, Skwisgaar did not know much in terms of addressing conflicts within interpersonal relationships. In the past he faced his problems by either 1. Not or 2. Doing what was asked of him, in exacting, meticulous detail, and hoping that would make the conflict disappear. The latter strategy was most often employed with his mother, and did little but make him miserable. There are only so many times one can be told they’re wrong, before they start to believe it on a molecular level.  
  
He handed Charles his change.  
  
“I’m gonna grab coffee from that clown place,” Nathan said. “The stuff Pickles makes _wrecks_ my gastrointestinal tract. You want anything?”  
  
Skwisgaar smiled crookedly. “You _knows_ whats I wants,” and Nathan grunted in affirmative annoyance.  
  
“I’m heading in that direction,” Charles said as he slipped on his coat. “I’ll walk with you.”  
  
With a half-wave from Nathan and a head tip from Charles, the two departed. The shop was the quietest it had been in weeks. Skwisgaar stretched, surveyed the terrain. Glancing down, he noticed some Pickles’s administrative knick-knacks beneath the front desk were out of order. With a groan, he squatted to the floor and began to alphabetize.  
  
The shop door opened, then closed. Skwisgaar chuckled.  
  
“Ams you so embarrassed to gets me mine drink, you gots to comes back and asks if its okays to gets me somet’ings else?” He pushed himself off the bottom shelf and stood. “Makes a decision for yourselfs. I’m nots your--”  
  
At once his vision went black at the edges, the linchpin pulled out of every vertebrae in his spine.  
  
“-- **_Moms_ ** .”   
  
Leather-gloved hands were tucked neatly at her waist, the collar of her bright red peacoat buttoned up to her neck. Pale blue eyes made a calculated scan down his body, and when they fixed on his face, any and all conflict resolution methods were wiped from his mind.   
  
“Hellos, son,” she said. “Does you haves a minutes? We haves much to catch up ons.”


	7. Chapter 7

Toki pressed his thumb to the top of the ribbon and _ripped_ out a curl, the ribbon’s ridges smoothed by the blade of the scissors. Skwisgaar was late, _again_ . Not that Toki was surprised. He’d come to anticipate a delay for their customer consultations. But there were no consultations on the books that day, and so they’d set a “study buddy” session, as Abigail teasingly called it. These sessions consisted of Skwisgaar ambling in when he pleased and ordering Toki to fetch whichever flower he needed practice sketching. (Toki couldn’t prove it, but he was _certain_ Skwisgaar only selected flowers based on how difficult they were to retrieve.)  
  
He tore out another curl, too hard, the end of the thin plastic splitting in two.  
  
“Does he t’inks I gots no’tings better to does dan waits arounds for hims to yells at mes all day?” Toki vented. “I gots other projects I can’ts start, cause he just gonna makes me stops every ten second ands say,” he dropped his voice an octave, “ **_huuuuueeeegggghhhhh gives to mes dat big fats reds ones waaaaaaaay over dere ons de tops shelf_ ** .”  
  
Abigail stood in the store front, organizing the latest seasonal display: A fully-furnished Thanksgiving tableau, centering her unused (and superior) Harvest Festival designs. She’d long ago lost interest in Toki’s Skwisgaar-related rants. But until she explicitly told him to stop, Toki was happy to maintain the illusion she was listening.  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“And I gets _no_ respekcts at alls from hims.” Toki pulled the ribbon so hard it almost toppled the vase it was tied around. “He’s _nevers_ on times, but nows he’s whats? _Twenty_ minutes late? What coulds he _possibly_ be doesing dat’s so importants?”  
  
Abigail lifted the final piece of her display--a cornucopia bursting with sunflowers and tiger lilies--but before setting it down, she paused. Squinting, she said, “Chatting up a potential customer?”  
  
“Whats?”  
  
Moving aside a pair of candlesticks, she pointed through the newly unoccupied space. “Look, you can see him in the shop talking to some older woman.”  
  
Toki fumed. How _typical_ Skwisgaar would kick him aside just to sink an easy lay up.  
  
Abigail continued working. “Guess he got intercepted on the way over.”  
  
Toki marched beside Abigail and saw for himself Skwisgaar, framed by Please Ink Responsibly’s front window, standing before an ornately dressed woman. His initial hunch had been wrong; even from a distance he could see a familial resemblance. The woman was tall, blonde, possessing an air of smug impassivity that could be seen from space. Beside her Skwisgaar looked small, his head bowed, ghostly complexion a whiter shade of pale, shoulders rolled forward as though he was trying to fold his body in on itself--  
  
A punch of recognition slugged Toki in the chest.  
  
“Toki, what are you--?”  
  
Stripping of his apron Toki zipped out the door and into the street. A BMW ran a red light and laid on its horn the moment his feet touched the tar, and he leapt back to the sidewalk to avoid getting crushed. Coast clear, he sprinted to the shop in four long strides and flung open its front door. The woman’s gaze lifted from Skwisgaar to Toki, nose wrinkling at the disturbance. Toki’s heart seized. Even with numbers on his size, against this woman he was outgunned and outmanned.  
  
“H...Hi-los,” he warbled. “Sorry tos makes de interruptions, but mes and Skwisgaar gots dis work t’ings we gots to do.” He clutched the middle of Skwisgaar’s forearm. “Nows, _right_ nows, over deres, right _nows_ , gotsta _goes_ , away from _heres_ , see you laters, good _byes_ …”  
  
Undeterred, her attention returned to Skwisgaar, and she resumed her monotonous, Swedish monologue. Toki sunk his nails into Skwisgaar’s skin, but still he did not acknowledge him. He appeared in a daze, motionless but for the rapid, painful-looking tugging on his fingers. He filled the few spaces of silence with clipped _ja mama_ s or _nej mama_ s. Toki looked back and forth between them, his panic mounting, a mouse failing to tear itself from a sticky trap before a gigantic black shadow delivered its demise.  
  
A whistling Pickles floated by the opposite side of the glass, cheerfully swinging a plastic record store bag. But once he laid eyes on the scene, his jolly demeanor vanished, his face flushing with fury.     
  
“Hey!” He moved like a wildfire, using every inch of his petite frame. “Hey hey hey _hey_ **_HEY_ ** .” Bruising passed Toki, he inserted himself between Skwisgaar and his mother. “What parda _go fuck yerself_ doncha understand?”  
  
Her glacial gaze recalibrated, fixating on Pickles.  
  
“Excuse me, tiny mans.” Seemed the family resemblance wasn’t just physical. “I ams trying to haves a conversation wif my sons. Sos if yous coulds gives to us some _space_ , please,” she flicked her wrist in the direction of the door, “ **t’anks** yous.”  
  
Pickles glared. “Lady, I don’ hafta go anywhere. This is _my shop_ . It’s a _priveet business_ and you are _naht welcome here_ .” He rose to the balls of his feet. “ **Get th’ fuck out** .”  
  
She lifted her chin, looking over Pickles’ scalp, and shifted her focus to Skwisgaar.  
  
“Dis ams who you choose to associates wif? After everyt’ings I’ve dones for yous, all dat monies I wastes on your schooling, just so yous can spends your times wif peoples who speaks to _your own mothers_ wif such _contempts_ ?” Her lips pursed. “I thoughts I raised you betters dan dats.”  
  
Skwisgaar did not answer. He only pulled harder at his fingers, a low _pop_ accompanying a devastating tug. Toki slid his hand down to blanket both of Skwisgaar’s, and he stilled.  
  
Pickles’ arm flung out, nearly striking Toki in the face.  
  
“I swear to Gahd if yer naht outta here in five seconds I’m callin’ th’cops.”  
  
“No you won’ts.”  
  
“ _No_ I _won’t_ , I **_hate_ ** cops. But I’ll tell ya this.” He reached behind the counter, pulled out a folding chair, threw it open with a _clang_ and jumped atop it to stare her straight in the eyeball. “Ya come inta my shop again, I’ll toss yer ass out so hard yer gonna be hurling cheek fillers fer a _month_ .”  
  
Her eyes narrowed. “Ams dat a threat?”  
  
“That’s a _promise_ .”  
  
The corners of her plush lips lifted. Somehow, her smile was more disquieting than her sneer.  
  
“No matters. Dis was ams a one times only appearance. I shall nots be returning.”  
  
Heels clacked against the tile. She paused, lingering at Skwisgaar’s shoulder.  
  
“Whens you’re dones playings arounds in dis little _la vie boheme_ lifestyles and decides to bes a _real_ growns-up, you knows where to finds me. And whens you comes backs to where you belongs…”  
  
Two blood-red nails alighted on Skwisgaar’s jaw, and she tipped his face toward her. As Skwisgaar inhaled sharply, Toki felt the second pang of recognition--the futile flash of hope that the long-craved, long-delayed affection would finally arrive. Her smile widened.  
  
“...I wills find it in my hearts to forgives you.”  
  
Skwisgaar released a shaky breath. His mother’s touch drifted down, to the ends of his hair. She pinched, twisted, pursed her lips again, and let go, rubbing her fingers together like she had just run them over a newly-cleaned mantle and been bitterly disappointed with the results.  
  
“Your hair’s too longs,” she said.  
  
Skwisgaar watched her leave, and watched the door long after she departed.  
  
Pickles hopped down from his perch. “Heyyyyyyy buddy, that _sucked_ , buuuuuut it’s over naow! So ya can stop……...bein’ crazy…….okay? Skwis?” He snapped his fingers in front of Skwisgaar’s eyes, soliciting no reaction. “Skwis? Hi? Hello? Ya in there? Wake up. _Wake_ **_up_ ** , Skwis.”  
  
“Has dis happened befores?” Toki asked.  
  
Pickles grimaced, worry stitching his brow. “It’s never been this bad.”  
  
The door swung open and Nathan filled the frame, carting a carrying tray of coffee cups.  
  
“Hey dickhead, I got your stupid European thing and I looked like a real asshole ordering it, you’re _welcome_ .” Setting down the carrier, he glanced up, and blanched. “Oh. Fuck.”  
  
Rage remounting, Pickles kicked the folding chair at Nathan, pouncing atop it when the metal collided with Nathan’s knees.  
  
“Uh, **_ow_ ** .”  
  
“What’s th’ _one thing_ I toldja naht to do?” He said, jabbing a finger in Nathan’s chest. Nathan frowned.  
  
“Leave the shop while you were picking up that stupid hair metal band’s vinyl re-release.”  
  
“And what’s th’ _one thing_ ya did?”  
  
“Leave the shop while you were picking up that stupid hair metal band’s vinyl re-release.”  
  
“Yeah! And while ya were out Skwisgaar’s _mom_ waltzed in here, and naow he’s a _fuckin’ zombie_ . This was th’exact situation ya were _hired to prevent_ .”  
  
“But I was only gone for, like, ten minutes!”  
  
“ **You were suppossta be gone for zero minutes** .” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Dood, yer so fired.”  
  
“Aww. Man. But we’re still friends, right?”  
  
Pickles sputtered. “What? Yes.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Nate.”  
  
“ _Promise_ promise?”  
  
“ _Yes and if ya ask me again I’m gonna rip out yer esophagus_ .”  
  
“Okay.” He pinched Skwisgaar’s face in one meaty claw, making Skwisgaar’s lips pucker into a big trouty mouth. “Skwisgaar we’re still friends right?  
  
Unfocused eyes stared at the space beyond Nathan’s shoulder. “Mhm! Mhm!”  
  
“ _Whew_ .” Nathan drew his free hand across his forehead. “That’s good. That’s a relief. Hey.” He turned to Toki. “I don’t know you super well. But I feel like there’s a lot of potential here. Do you want to be friends.”  
  
Toki, unclear on anything that was happening, cocked his head and said, “Sures?”  
  
“Great. Wow, things are really turning around for me, and me alone.”  
  
Pickles clutched at his roots, a dred popping off in his fist. “Ohhhhhhhhh my _Gaaaahhhhhhd_ .”  
  
The door opened once more, and Murderface bounded through.  
  
“Hey fellasch, who wasch that total schmokeschow I schaw leaving here? Sche looked like Schkwishgaar with titsch! Anyone get her number?”  
  
“Hey! Murderface!”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“We’re still friends, right?”  
  
Murderface squared up. “Of _coursche_ we’re friendsch, who schaid we’re not friendsch? I’ll kick their assch!”  
  
“ _MURDERFACE WHY ARE YA HERE_ .” Pickles shrieked. Murderface crossed his arms over his stomach.  
  
“I schaw everybody wasch hanging out and I don’t like to be left out of thingsch.”  
  
“Mhm!” Skwisgaar filled a mug at the bathroom sink, water flowing over the lip of the glass and running down his arm. “Mhm! Mhm! Mhm! Mhm!”  
  
Nathan slipped in behind him, turned off the faucet, and toweled him dry.  
  
“Welp he’s completely useless naow,” Pickles said. “Someone’s gonna hafta take him home.”  
  
Guiding Skwisgaar by the shoulders, Nathan led him out. “I got it.”  
  
“Oh no yer _naht_ .” Pickles slid across the counter and withdrew a massive black binder, dropping it to the surface with a _thwack_ . “Yer callin’ all Skwisgaar’s clients fer today _and_ tomahrrow, and yer tellin’ them they gahtta reschedule.”  
  
Nathan sunk. “Aw, man. Are they gonna be mad at me?”  
  
“They’re gonna be _fuckin’ pissed_ . Murderface, can ya take him?”  
  
“Wellllllll, normally I wouldn’t turn down a chance to schow my _altruischtic nature_ , but I can’t. I gotta head down to a protescht rally down at City Hall in schupport of the community center. Can you _believe_ thosche knuckleheadsch on the council are trying to--”  
  
“Well _I_ can’t take ‘im cause I gotta make sure _this_ knucklehead doesn’t _fuck up_ worse than he already has.” Pickles combed at his goatee. “Maybe we can lock him in the back til he’s normal again.”  
  
“I cans takes him,” Toki chirped.  
  
Silence filled the shop. Pickles squinted.  
  
“D’ya even know where he lives?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” Toki replied, like a liar.  
  
“Good enough fer me,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll call Abby and letter know where yer at.”  
  
Only now did Toki realize he was abandoning his shift to babysit a guy he hated. He swallowed hard and took Skwisgaar’s limp hand. “Cools.”  
  
“Hey,” Nathan called as they were about to exit. “I got these jalapeno kettle-cooked chips at home. They’re Skwisgaar’s favorite. When he snaps out of it, tell him……...he can have _some_ of them.”  
  
“Okays,” Toki said as they moved out.  
  
“Just _some_ of them though! Not the whole bag! Those are _my chips_ !”  
  
The door clicked shut.  
  
Alarm once more climbed up his throat. What had he just _agreed_ to? Skwisgaar’s disorientation had yet to ebb. Toki took a few steps to get out of the guys’ line of sight, then squeezed Skwisgaar’s hand.  
  
“Sooooooooo,” he said, “where does you lives?”  
  
“Mhm!” Skwisgaar nodded furiously. “Mhm! Mhm!”  
  
Toki shifted from foot to foot, unsure what he should do. Then, as if it were gifted to him from the gods, he got an idea.  
  
“Comes wif me.”  
  
The lush quiet of Abigail’s greenhouse enveloped them. Sunlight streamed through the domed glass ceiling. Pink and purple petunias draped from their hanging planters. The air was still, and warm, and heavy with the scent of orchids. A table at the back held a shock of yellow tulips.  Flecks of soil crunched beneath the soles of their shoes as they breezed passed a spray of multi-colored pansies. Toki found a clean spot, sat Skwisgaar down, then settled beside him.  
  
Skwisgaar remained adrift, and Toki wondered if this is how he looked during _his_ spells, when hours or whole days blinked out of existence. When he emerged from them, he often felt lonely, and angry, and resentful someone didn’t care enough to care for him. A long moment passed before Toki spoke. What was the right thing to say? What was a _decent_ thing to say? He tried to remember what he told himself, in the times the darkness got the best of him.  
  
“My parents,” he said, at last, “dey ams very…” he hesitated. “... _Rigids_ . Ands if I don’ts does whats dey asks, dere cans be…” he hesitated again, unwilling to share the truth but unable to find an adequate substitute. “ _Consequences_ . I can’ts does anyt’ings abouts it when I’m wifs dem, so I woulds comes in heres a lot, to calms myself downs.”  
  
The clouds behind Skwisgaar’s eyes began to break. Encouraged, Toki went on.  
  
“Dat’s how I gots my job, acktuallys. Abigail founds me outs here, yellings and makings a mess, and insteads of throwing me outs, she lets me stick arounds. She was nice to mes, at a times when I really, really needed someone to be nice to mes. I…”  
  
A swell of emotion lodged in his throat. He had _never_ articulated these feelings, not even to Abigail.  There was still so much she didn’t know.  
  
“I haven’ts beens de nicest person to yous,” he said. “Ands, to be honest, you haven’t beens de nicest person to _mes_ neither. But I--sorry, dat’s not de points. De point ams--”  
  
What he wanted to say was: He understood what it meant to hate your parents. To feel stuck. To always carry a roiling ball of rage in your guts. To change your commute to cross the highway overpass; to scream knowing the sound would be absorbed by the rush of traffic below.  
  
“De point ams, I gets it,” he said instead. “Ands if you needs to gets some of dat stuff insides you outs, den dis ams a good place to does it. And Toki’s a good person to does it wif, cause I won’ts tells anyone abouts it, evers. I means it.”  
  
Toki _did_ mean it, sincerely, and had been ready to deal with anything Skwisgaar’s anger could throw at him. But when Skwisgaar’s spell finally broke, Toki had absolutely no idea what to do. Skwisgaar didn’t scream, or smash things, or show any sign of anger at all. Because Skwisgaar wasn’t angry. Skwisgaar was sad.  
  
Skwisgaar was crying.   
****

  
**\---**  
**  
**

The breakdown had been a long time coming. His mother’s surprise visit hadn’t just pushed him over the edge; it rocketed him into the sun. He had hoped his inevitable metal collapse would occur when he was alone. That it happened in front of anyone was bad, and that it happened in front of _Toki_ of all people was the Worst Case Scenario. Holding back his tears only brought more, and with greater urgency. Things he’d stomped down within himself for weeks, months, _years_ rushed to the surface, and he was helpless in the face of the deluge.  
  
“I’m so tireds,” he sobbed. “I works all de times, and whens I’m _not_ workings I’m _worrieds_ about _not workings_ . And it feel likes? No matters how much I works? Ams always goingks to bes treadings water. Ands sooner or laters ams goingks to drown.”  
  
He wept so hard he struggled to breathe, wheezing as though his chest were caving in. Toki, still dumbstruck from the emotional outburst, laid a tentative hand stiffly on Skwisgaar’s back. Awkward, but appreciated.  
  
Words came out in a flurry before he could stop them.  
  
“Whens I was a little kids, I dids anyt’ings my moms asked. I tooks de classes she wanted, I hung arounds de peoples she wanted. I didn’t does stuff _I_ liked, cause dat wasn’t whats she wanted, you knows?”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Buts it...it was never enoughs. She always founds somet’ings _wrongs_ , some ways I coulds be _betters_ . All I wanted was to makes her happy. Buts she wasn’ts happy. Ands _I_ … _I_ wasn’ts happy.”  
  
He had never said that out loud before. And doing so made him gasp for air.  
  
“I...I...I…”  
  
“S’okays, takes your times.”  
  
He drew a quivering breath.  
  
“I finally says, _fuck its_ . I dropped outs of de college she wanted mes to go tos, and moved outs de house she wanted mes to lives in, and tried, you knows, to figure outs what makes _me_ happy, you knows? And my lifes ams kinda shitty, but at least it ams _mine_ . At least _I_ mades it and dat ams enough. _Huegh._ I means. It almost enough.”  
  
“What else does you wants?” Toki asked. “What woulds be enoughs?”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed. “Besides nots feelings likes I’m one missed paychecks away froms lee-veeng ons de streets. Psh.” His eyes welled up, and he buried his face in his hands. “I don’ts even wants to says it.”  
  
Toki didn’t push, didn’t pry. Just kept tracing circles along his back.  
  
“I wants,” Skwisgaar mumbled, through his fingers, “I wants her to be prouds of mes.” A hot wave of disgust swept over him at the admission. _Baby wants a big kiss from his mommy_ . How much more pathetic could he be? “Dat’s dumb, I feels so dumb saysing dat. She ams never goingks to bes, ands I ams dumbs for wantings its. Whatevers. I don’ts even wants it, anyways.”  
  
“You’re nots dumb,” Toki said. “If wantings your parents to likes you even though dey treats you bads makes you dumb, den I ams de dumbest poirson alives.”  
  
Skwisgaar readied a comeback, but refrained. It was too easy. Plus, Toki was being so nice.  
  
“Whats I gonna does if I runs out of moneys, Toki?” He stared at his hands. “Wheres I gonna goes? You saw how I was arounds hers. Even after all dese year, she still make me feel so... _small_ .”  
  
His lungs were shrinking. His heart was expanding. There was not enough air in the world to fill him. He sucked down quick, unsatisfying breaths.  
  
“I finally feels like I’s building somet’ings for mes, ands if I has to go backs to hers it...It wills _destroy_ mes.” He pulled on his fingers rough enough to dislodge them from their joints. His nervous childhood habit had become the only thing to offer him any semblance of relief. “I can’ts go backs dere, Toki. I can’ts. I _can’ts_ , I can’ts, I can’ts, I **_can’ts_ ** …”  
  
Toki’s hands enveloped his own, and he stopped, trembling.  
  
“You gonna breaks somet’ings if you keeps doings dat.” Toki said. Then, after a thoughtful pause: “You haves really beautiful hands.”  
  
“I gets dat a lots,” he replied unthinking. At Toki’s glare he coughed. “ _Eurghm_ . Whats I means ams. T’anks you.”  
  
Following another silence, Toki continued. “You’re nots gonna runs outs of money.”  
  
“Ja? How’s you knows dat?”  
  
“Cause you gonna _makes_ a lots of money. You and mes. Wif dis promotion.”  
  
Skwisgaar shook his head in disbelief.  
  
“We’s gonna puts our differences aside, and we’s gonna works together, and we’s gonna makes dis de most successful flower-tattoo promotion de worlds ams ever seens.”  
  
“Pretty shore dis what ams de _only_ flower-tattoo promotions de worlds ams ever seens.”  
  
Toki grinned. ‘Den we gots alls de rooms to succeeds!”  
  
Skwisgaar remained unconvinced. Toki’s blinding smile faded, his grip on Skwisgaar’s hands tightening.  
  
“Skwisgaar, we haves a chance to does somet’ings special, somet’ings dat cans makes a lots of people happy. Maybe we cans never makes our parents prouds of us. But _maybe_ , togethers, we can makes somet’ings _we_ cans be proud ofs.”  
  
“You don’ts really believes dat, does you?” he jeered.  
  
Toki was quiet for a long moment. Then, with the rueful resolve only gained through experience, he murmured, “I _haves_ to.”  
  
The smallest corner of Skwisgaar’s heart broke, and he could not say why. His eyes swelled with tears. Charles said a working relationship must be built on common ground. Skwisgaar just wished his and Toki’s commonality could have been something less intense.  
  
Overhead, a pair of goldfinches fluttered in each others’ orbits before landing atop the greenhouse, nuzzling close. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and tilted his face into the sun.  
  
“If you needs to cry some mores,” Toki said gently, “ams okay.”  
  
“Noes. I t’inks I gots it all outs of my systems.” The warmth of the sun (and, though he’d never tell him, Toki’s soft touch) cooled his angst to a manageable simmer. He stretched cat-like, groaning as his back cracked. “Welllllllll dis has beens humilgigating. Not’ings left to does but drinks til I can’ts remember nones of its.”  
  
Toki rose, brushed the soil from the back of his pants, and extended his hand. “I’ll walk you home.”  
  
“Psh,” Skwisgaar swiped at his eyes with his jacket sleeve. No thanks. The _last_ thing he wanted was more pity. “You don’ts has to does dat.”  
  
Having given him a golden opportunity to walk away, Skwisgaar totally expected him to take it. Hell, had the roles been reversed, _he_ would have. Probably.    
  
But when he looked up, Toki was still there, still smiling, hand still outstretched.  
  
“I _wants_ to.”


	8. Chapter 8

Though town was not very big, there was still much of it Toki had never seen. His commute from the village was a straight shot from the opposite direction. And barring the infrequent errand for Abigail, he never ventured more than a few blocks from the shop. For Toki, Skwisgaar’s neighborhood was a whole new world. Age cracked the pocky slabs of slate serving as the sidewalk. The streets were lined with houses colorful as birthday cake, wide front yards sprinkled with tire swings, bikes, heaps of just-raked leaves. Yipping dogs smooshed their faces in the space between the bottom of their fences and the ground. One house had yet to take down its Halloween decorations; the cackle of a motion-activated witch made Toki jump, and Skwisgaar snicker.  
  
Pretty. Tranquil. The kind of place Toki always dreamed of living, in rare moments he allowed himself to dream.  
  
Skwisgaar lifted two fingers at a motorist who’d stopped to let them cross. “So dis douchebags grabs my shirts and says, ‘ _I knows you de ones whats been fucking my wifes_.’”  
  
“ _Had_ you beens de ones whats been fucking his wifes?”  
  
“Dat time? Nah. I hads never mets dis guy _or_ his wifes. But he make like he gonna hits me, and den ** _BLAMS_**. Nathan comes outs of nowheres and **_punches_** him rights in de face. One shots K.O. Heh. We beens friends ever since.”  
  
Skwisgaar’s apartment was at the end of the complex, the last in a tidy collection of red-bricked buildings. Units were stacked two-high, white wooden railings enclosing platforms jutting from each one. Delicate hanging planters--Abigail’s handiwork--swayed from narrow pillars connecting the second and ground floor levels. A woman crouched to set down a bushel of mums on her front stoop. She waved as they passed.  
  
“Dis place is so nice,” Toki said.  
  
“Ja we gots lucky,” Skwisgaar agreed. “It amn’ts easy to finds cheap rent arounds here. Nathan and I was abouts to sign a lease on dis _really_ crappy place on de other ends of towns. I means _really_ crappy. No ons-site washer dryers, waters and heats not included, right next to dat abandoneds freight yards where all dose peoples keep disappearings--”  
  
“Waits, what was dat last parts?”  
  
“--Buts den Charles tipped us off dat a spot in dis joint was goingk to opens up. Ones of his customers dat lived here died! So’s, in de ends, it all worked outs.” He paused. “Maybe nots for dat guy dat died. Buts for me, anyways.”  
  
They stopped. Skwisgaar tipped his head toward the unit above them. Sunlight glinted green through the empty beer bottles dotting the balcony.  
  
“Dis ams me.” He shifted his weight to his opposite foot. “T’anks. For, uh. Walkingks me homes.”  
  
Toki smiled. “T’anks for letting mes.” His gaze darted down, noticing his pinky toe wiggling through a hole in his sneakers. But above his shoes, he noticed something else. Something that tied his small intestine in knots.  
  
Though Skwisgaar hadn’t caught on, he picked up on Toki’s mood shift.  
  
“Whats?” he asked.  
  
Toki pinched his lower lips between his teeth. “Um. So’s."  
  
“Soooooooo’s?”  
  
“How longs have we been doings dat?”  
  
Skwisgaar’s eyes narrowed in a half-glower. “Doings what?”  
  
“Um!”  
  
He followed the line of Toki’s stare. The color drained from his face. His fingers were folded loosely, comfortably into Toki’s, as they had been from the moment he’d accepted Toki’s hand in the greenhouse.  
  
They both jerked their hands free.  
  
“ _Oh_.” said Skwisgaar.  
  
“Yeahs.” said Toki.  
  
“So dis whole times we was--”  
  
“Looks likes it.”  
  
“Ands at _no point_ dids you t’inks--”  
  
“Dids _I_ t’ink? Dis is a two ways street, misters! Why didn’ts _yous_ do anyt’ings?”  
  
“Me?! I was emoshunallys distraught! I can’ts be eckspeckted to notice every single place mine hand winds ups!”  
  
“Wells! _I’s!_ Was doings a lots of _emotional labors_!!! And dat ams _eggshausting!_ I can’ts be expected to notice all de places _my_ hand winds up, eithers!!!”  
  
“So’s neithers of us noticed dis until right nows.”  
  
“Guess nots!!!!”  
  
“...Huh.”  
  
“Huh...”  
  
A beat.  
  
“I suppose dese t’ings haves a way of _huegh_ happenings. Sometime.”  
  
“I suppose. Dey does.”  
  
Another beat. A car engine backfired. Birds chattered invisible in far off trees. Skwisgaar stuffed his clenched fists into the pockets of his jacket. Toki rubbed his palm on the side of his jeans.  
  
“I shoulds gets back to works,” Toki said, unmoving. “Glads you’re feelings better. See ya.”  
  
After a moment of hesitation, he finally turned to go, unable to understand why, after weeks of dreading every interaction with Skwisgaar, he was suddenly reluctant to leave.  
  
But before he could, Skwisgaar cleared his throat.  
  
“I’m gonna makes a pots of coffee,” he said. “I can’ts drinks de whole t’ings by myself.” He coughed. “I means, I _cans_ , but de last times I dids dat I coulds _ehhhhhhhh_ sees time? And dat kinda freaked mes outs? You knows, eckxistentiallys?”  
  
Toki cocked his head. “Why nots you don’ts makes a full pot?”  
  
“ _Nej_ , Toki, dat’s nots--”  
  
“Why woulds you makes more dan whats you needs? Dat’s just _wasteful_ , I thoughts you was tryings to save money--"  
  
“I’ms tryings to ask if yous wants to comes inside. **_Idiots._** ”  
  
“Insides? “ Heat spread across the back of Toki’s neck.”You means, ins your apartment?”  
  
Skwisgaar crossed his arms. “Dat’s...where my stuff ams.”  
  
Toki considered the offer. There was still plenty left to do back at the shop. But half the day was shot, anyway, and he _had_ come all this way…  
  
“Okays.”  
  
The corner of Skwisgaar’s mouth lifted, just a little.  
  
“Cools.” He pat down the pockets of his jeans, then, remembering something, closed his eyes and groaned. “Fucks.”  
  
“Whats?”  
  
“Nathan has our keys.”  
  
That didn’t sound right. “ _Our_ keys?”  
  
“We thoughts we coulds save moneys by sharings one set.”  
  
“How does dat saves money?”  
  
“It mades sense ats de times.”  
  
“I don’ts believes dat it dids!!!”  
  
Flipping off his jacket with an overdramatic flourish, he said, “Whatevers, it amn’ts a big deals. I gots a systems.”  
  
With the flick of his wrist the jacket fluttered into the air, Toki’s vision going dark as the fabric fell across his face. By the time he tugged it away Skwisgaar was halfway up the pillar, one foot on the flagpole mount, the other on the banister of his downstair neighbor’s porch, slim arms pulling taut with muscle as he hoisted himself up and over the railing of his balcony in one fluid motion. He disappeared through the unlocked door into his apartment, minutes later emerging downstairs at the building’s entrance. He propped an elbow against the doorframe, smirking.  
  
“Impresseds?”  
  
Toki’s brain tried to reconcile how such a thoroughly unathletic person could accomplish such a thoroughly athletic feat.  
  
“How many times haves you dones dat?”  
  
Skwisgaar raised one shoulder and dropped it.  
  
“Once or twice a weeks.”  
  
“ _Gets another sets of keys!_ ”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed and pivoted as if on a hinge, leaving the threshold wide open. “Ams you coming in or whats?”  
  
A hot flash of malice spiked through Toki. What if he just _left_? What if he marched back downtown without another word? He could just see Skwisgaar’s _face_ , his magnanimous attempt at hospitality ruined. Even if he didn’t see it, God, it would be _so satisfying_.  
  
But when the impulse quickly faded, Toki was left with a burn he did not recognize, one that only grew stronger as he ascended the stairs to Skwisgaar’s apartment.   **  
******

**  
**\---**  
  
**

Not having the keys had been a blessing, because it gave Skwisgaar time to clean up before letting Toki in. Just a quick sweep. Shut his and Nathan’s bedroom doors; wipe down the bathroom sink; fold the blankets on the couch; toss the sticky take-out containers; shove the pile of dirty dishes into the microwave. He would have liked to do more. The state of his apartment caused him great shame. But Nathan wasn’t exactly a neat freak, and after working 14 hours straight the last thing Skwisgaar wanted was spend his precious free time scrubbing the black mold out of the shower. If had a full day off, to _really_ get into it, to make this place sparkle the way it did when he first moved in…  
  
But that wasn’t in the cards, and he accepted that. Still, he apologized to Toki for the mess.  
  
“Ams you kiddings? I _loves_ it.” His eyes shined with sincerity. “You haves all dis space for yourselfs?!”  
  
“Well, ands Nathan…”  
  
“Wowee, dis living rooms am _huge!”_ He scampered in without invitation. “You coulds fits at least _five_ thousand-piece puzzles in heres!”  
  
Skwisgaar went to the kitchen. “I’ll haves to takes your words for its.”  
  
“Dat’s five puzzles wif one thousands pieces each.” Toki trailed him, plopping onto a stool at the kitchen island. “Dat’s a _lots_ of puzzle pieces.”  
  
Skwisgaar removed a baggie of ground coffee from the freezer, shaking off the frost. He checked the fridge for snacks. Not much. Leftovers from one of Nathan’s family parties. A bright red apple. A box of dryer sheets--oh, _that’s_ where that was. He spun to the coffee maker, plucking the **NATHAN DO NOTS PUNCH >:(** Post-It note off the carafe.  
  
“Dis place don’ts normally looks like dis,” Skwisgaar said, even though his place had looked like this for several months. He laid a filter flat in the machine. “I just hasn’t has de times to…”  
  
“I _loves_ mess. Dis place look like peoples acktually _lives_ in it. Where I lives, everyt’ings gots to bes in its place. And if somet’ings doesn’t has a place…”  
  
His eyes glazed over, excitement vanishing like his jaw had been punctured to let all the sap out.  
  
“...maybe it doesn’t deserves to exists.”  
  
The last scoop of coffee grounds hovered above the pot. Something about the way Toki talked about his home life didn’t sit right with Skwisgaar. Everyone’s family was uniquely shitty, _sure_ , he understood that better than anyone. But the shittiness of Toki’s family seemed... _different_ , somehow.  
  
Skwisgaar was often oblivious, but he knew when someone was withholding information. He slapped the lid shut and hit the start button.  
  
“Your parents,” he said as he about-faced, “dey am _hueeeegghhhhhnnnn_ pretty stricts, ja?”  
  
Toki bristled. “...Ja.”  
  
“Ands dey still lets you has dis job?”  
  
“I don’ts understands what you means?” He stared at the counter surface, feet knocking rhythmically into the legs of the stool. Skwisgaar pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. If _he_ had to blubber about _his_ past, it was only fair he pushed Toki to blubber about _his_ .  
  
“Whens I was in hike sckools,” he began, careful, “I wants-ted to takes dis job ats an arts supply stores. Good pays, cute goils, 40 percent discounts. Really good gigs.”  
  
The coffee maker gurgled. Toki picked at his nails.  
  
“Buts my _moms_ , she didn’ts wants dat,” Skwisgaar went on. “She wants-ted mes to takes dis administrative internships ats a law office. Super borings, filings lots of documents I didn’ts understands. Buts it woulds looks real good on college app-lee-kay-shuns, so. Dat’s de jobs I tooks.”  
  
“Why didn’ts you _tells_ your moms you was ats de internship,” Toki said, eyes still glued to the countertop, “buts _really_ goes to de arts store?”  
  
“I thoughts of dats.” He hitched his heel to the handle of the pots and pans drawer. “My moms thoughts of dat, toos. Which is whys she called mine supervisors at de law office every single days, to makes sures I cames in to works.”  
  
Toki said nothing.  
  
“My moms, _eeeeaaauuughhh_ , she was not’ings if nots consistents in makings sures she knews _exactlys_ where I was, all de time, always.” A hiss of steam erupted from the top of the coffee maker. “At least _you_ parents trust you enoughs to lets you offs de leash.”  
  
Toki leapt to his feet. “I gotsta use de wiz palace!!!”  
  
Skwisgaar blinked. A flush fanned across Toki’s cheeks.  
  
“I means. Mays I’s to please use de bathrooms?”  
  
“Down de halls, to de lefts.”  
  
Toki skittered off like a pillbug just discovered beneath a rock. Skwisgaar sighed. Maybe he was reading too much into things. Maybe Toki was just a weirdo. Based on what he knew about him, that seemed the most logical explanation.  
  
A cacophonous **_CRASH_ ** sounded from the hallway. Then, the whinny of Toki’s voice: “Sorrys! I fells into dis piles of junks and mades it all fall downs!” Then, silence. Then, a reverent whisper: “Oh, _wow_ .”  
  
When Skwisgaar arrived in the hall, he found it littered with crap--mostly memorabilia from Nathan’s football glory days, stuff he’d _promised_ to take to his parents’ storage unit, _three weeks ago_ . Toki was on his knees, as if in prayer. In his hands was a 10X10 canvas, darkened by blocky blues, purples and greens, blotches of white and yellow bisecting the lot of it. Skwisgaar winced. Why had he _kept_ that piece? So juvenile. So experimental. So...not.  
  
He strode toward him shoulders rolled forward. “ _Ugh_ , how dis gets out heres, give to mes dat, I’ll puts it aways--”  
  
Toki twisted his torso, locking his elbows in full extension. His fingertips ghosted over the looping gold signature.  
  
“You dids dis?” he murmured.  
  
“I...Ja.” Skwisgaar stumbled. He leaned into the wall, missed, tried again. “But dat ones is really olds. My newer stuffs ams way differents.”  
  
“You haves more?” Toki whirled on him, face like a dying star, and his heart collapsed like one. “Cans I see dem?"  
  
Skwisgaar’s primary inclination was to decline. To root around the flatbed plastic storage container beneath his bed was just so much _work,_ and for what? A nod of faux-appreciation? A stroke of the chin preceding an incorrect interpretation? It wasn’t worth it.  
  
But what he said instead was, “Okay.”  
  
Moments later, Skwisgaar’s work was fanned across the living room floor. The positive reception compelled him to bring out his _best_ stuff. Stuff he’d once dreamt of submitting places, stuff he’d thought worthy of getting _displayed_ . He pulled at his fingers, stopped, slid his hands into the back of his jeans, as Toki pored over the mock exhibition. Bright shapes mashing against dark ones. Irregular splashes of color. Faces rising amongst swirls of nonsense.  
  
This was a mistake.  
  
“You’re _so goods_ ,” Toki cooed. “It’s _annoyings_ how good you ares.”  
  
Skwisgaar beamed, clapped his hand to his mouth, squeezed the smile off his face, dropped his hand and opened it.  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“It’s so _differents_ den whats I see you does for works."  
  
Skwisgaar squatted, forearms resting on his thighs. He’d long felt explaining his art deprived it of meaning. But how often did he get to talk about it?  
  
“Ja, you knows, for works, I gets a set templates I gots to fills out, you knows?” He ran his hand through his hair. “But dis stuff...I gets all gunked ups wif feelings, you knows? Ands, you knows, doesing dis kinda…”  
  
“Wibbly-wobblys?”  
  
“I was gonna says abstracts.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, dat works, too.”  
  
He thought to explain the feeling when he was painting, like he’d sliced open his heart and sponged the canvas with its remains.  
  
“Doesing dies kinds of stuff helps me.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’m nots goods saysings how I feels. Buts puttings dese feelings outs dere wif dese shapes and colors, it...make sense, to mes.  
  
Toki’s wild eyes stretched into his eyebrows.  
  
“You shoulds displays dis stuff.”  
  
Skwisgaar bolted to his feet. “ **_Noes_ ** .”  
  
“Buts your stuff ams so--”  
  
“ **_NOES_ ** .”  
  
The coffee maker chimed.  
  
“Coffee’s dones,” Skwisgaar said, and lightening to the kitchen, he retrieved mugs from the upper cabinets. Toki sat opposite him. They sipped in silence. Skwisgaar thought to offer milk, or creamer, but EH. **_EH_ ** .  
  
“So’s.” Toki said.  
  
“So’s.” Skwisgaar replied, face hidden behind a **_WORLD’S BEST GRANDMOTHER_**  mug.  
  
“I t’inks,” he said, setting his coffee down, “it woulds bes in de best een-ter-est ofs all parties dat we don’t be’s such dicks to each others.”  
  
Skwisgaar smiled. “I don’ts disagrees.”  
  
“I propose,” Toki said, “dat we be’s--”  
  
“Coworkers?”  
  
“I was gonna says friends.”  
  
Skwisgaar pondered the phrase. FRIENDS was a lot. He could have been more comfortable with  _acquaintances_. But this day had been a lot. Much more than an acquaintance could handle.  
  
He grinned.  
  
“Friends.”  
  
“Friends?”  
  
“ _Friends_ .”  
  
He held his mug aloft. With a half-smile, Toki met him, clinking their glasses hard against one another. They lingered.  
  
Toki set down his cup, then stood.  
  
“I should heads back.”  
  
Coffee dabbed the tip of Skwisgaar’s nose.  
  
“If you willing to waits,” he said, “I cans give you a rides home when Nathan brings de car backs--”  
  
“ **_NO’S_ ** !!!!!!”  
  
The stool toppled to the ground. Air whistled through the air conditioner’s unused vents. Toki's smile fractured.  
  
“Ha ha ha! I means! I should gets back, to Abigails! For reasons! So I’s gonna do thats!”  
  
He jolted up, moved to the door. Glancing back, he gave only a small, genuine smile.  
  
“T’anks you.” he said. “For everyt’ings.”  
  
Before Skwisgaar could object he was gone.  
  
It was a long time before Skwisgaar did anything. He looked about. Checked the microwave. Finished his coffee. Realized he really, _really_ needed a nap. Went down the hall.  
  
Saw his painting.  
  
Looked at his painting.  
  
Like, _really_ looked at his painting.  
  
Lifted it. Pressed it to the wall’s protruding nail. Let it hang.  
  
Smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

Toki’s father could sense disent as though it carried an odor. For the escape plan to work, every move required caution. Toki had to be judicious in the positioning of his “hidey holes;” selective about the possessions that lay within. To bring one of his treasures back to the village was to give up the ghost on the whole endeavor. Everything had to be accounted for.  
  
With Abigail’s help, Toki opened his first bank account, using Morbud Curiosity as his home address. Thanks to some kind of wizardry she called “direct deposit,” his paychecks went straight into the account without leaving a paper trail. Twice a month he checked his balance, calculated how much more was needed to move out, and updated his mental ledger. Rarely did he make withdrawals. For clothes, he had Abigail and Murderface’s charity. For food, he depended on the kindness of strangers. ( _Kindness_ in this case meant _looking the other way when he dumpster dove for almost-but-not-quite-expired groceries_.) His money was meant for one thing and one thing only: Building him a new life.  
  
But today he made an exception.  
  
Walking into the coffee shop was like walking into a dream. The brightly-hued furnishings. The steady stream of acoustic carnival music. The tasteful portraits of clowns throughout the ages. Floating to the counter, mesmerized, Toki felt wrapped a warmth and comfort he had never known. Here, he was safe. What a magical place.  
  
So enamored was he by the decor he did not realize the person manning the register was none other than Nathan.    
  
“Hey! It’s you! My new friend!” His eyes creased at the edges. “ _Yyyyyyyyyoooooooouuuuuuu_.”  
  
“Toki.”  
  
“Toki! Yes!” He snapped his fingers into a point, as if recalling the name was his independent triumph. “I won’t forget that again, probably. What can I get you?”  
  
Toki grinned. “One t’ings of coffees, if yous please! Ands it’s not for mes, it’s fors Skwisgaar.”  
  
Green eyes glimmered with mischief.  
  
“Bro, is this a prank?” he said under his breath. “Are you pranking right now? You gonna give him a spiked coffee?” He hefted the pot and poured without breaking eye contact. “What are you gonna put in it? Hot sauce? Laxatives? Bees? _Please_ don’t do it until my break, I _have_ to see this.”  
  
“I’m nots gonna does anyt’ings to its!” Toki huffed. “I’s just gonna _gives_ it to hims cause I’s _tryings_ to be nice!”  
  
Interest withering, Nathan rolled his eyes.  
  
“ **Hngh** , _lame_.”  
  
He deposited the cup on the countertop, coffee shimmering oily beneath the alternating purple and yellow lights overhead. Toki’s stomach was in a tumult. Siphoning money from his Get Out fund was always hard. But this was a _nice thing_ he was doing. This was him _taking ownership_ of his fuck-ups, as Abigail had firmly suggested countless times before. This was _worth it._  
  
He locked his elbow and extended a stiff arm, three crisp $20 bills clamped in his sweaty fingers. Nathan’s gaze shifted between the money, the register, the coffee, and Toki’s strained expression.     
  
“You know what?” he said, gently pushing Toki’s hand away. “Just take it.”  
  
The uneasy in his guts dropped away.  
  
“Reallys?”  
  
“What’s the point of having a job if you can’t give your friends free shit?”  
  
“Oh, wowee,” Toki said, stuffing the money in the pocket of his hoodie. “T’anks you so _much_! You’s a real pal!”  
  
Nathan tipped up the brim of his **I DO CAFFEINE!!!** with his thumb.  
  
“He’s a real shitty barista, is what he is.”  
  
A slender blonde floated into the margins of Toki’s vision, her shrewish features screwed into a grimace.  
  
“Ugh, you again.” Nathan groaned. “What do you want _now_?”  
  
The blonde slammed a glass cup to the counter, its contents splashing over rim. Toki inched out of her strike range.  
  
“I want you. To get. My order. **_Right_**.” She slid the cup toward Nathan with a single, sharply-filed middle finger. “And since you’ve already fucked up three times, I spoke with your manager.”  
  
At once, Nathan’s green-haired boss sprung up at his side, as though he’d been launched from a hidden, human-sized Jack-in-the-Box. Toki would be delighted if he wasn’t certain Nathan was about to be in a lot of trouble.  
  
“ _Tray-nee_ ,” he said. “ _C-C-C-CAN you tell me what we’re looking at_?”  
  
Nathan starred down into the cup’s black abyss. “It’s coffee. What’s the problem.”  
  
“ _That_ ** _is_** _the problem. That’s not what she or-D-D-D-DERED._ ”  
  
The woman sneered, folding her toned arms across her flat stomach. “I wanted a chai latte.”  
  
Nathan raised his shoulders, gesturing open palmed and incredulous at the beverage.  
  
“How? How is this not a chai latte?”  
  
The woman scoffed. Flicking her hair off her shoulder, she looked askance at Toki in a way that suggested she believed because they were on the same side of the counter, they were on the same team.  
  
“ _One_ , it’s _not_ chai, and _two_ , it’s not a _latte_. Dumbass.”  
  
“ **Nrgh**. Only pretentious douchebags order those fancy coffee drinks, anyway.” he sniffed. “Whenever someone asks for one I just give them a large black coffee. **No one** has noticed.”  
  
“Chai is _tea_ you uncultured swine.”  
  
Nathan sucked his teeth. “Did you just call me a pig?”  
  
“I would _never_ do that.” she spat. “Pigs are _smart_.”  
  
“ _Wait a minute_ ,” the boss said. “ _Have you been giving out plain ol’ regular coffee for every order?_ ”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, no.”  
  
“ _People come to_ ** _I DO CAFFEINE!!!_** _for our specialty drinks, traynee!_ ” He ducked out of view, then popped back up holding a thick book. “ _If you were unsure of the recipes, you should have consulted the Barista Bible_.”  
  
“ ** _Hggggggnnnnn_** the Barista Bible _sucks_. It’s incomprehensible. Whoever wrote it had a screw loose.”  
  
The boss’s happily-painted face hardened. “ ** _I_** _wrote it_.”  
  
Nathan shrugged.  
  
“Yeah, well. It could _really_ use a re-write.”  
  
“ _That’s it_.” The boss pointed emphatically to the exit. “ _You’re C-C-C-CANNED_!”  
  
“ **Fine.** ” Nathan tore off his cap, flung it to the ground and bullied passed his now-former boss. “I never wanted to work here **_anyway!”  
  
_**“Then why did you apply to work here?” The woman yipped when he stomped by.  
  
Nathan turned, continuing his violent course to the door backwards. Toki seized his coffee and scurried to follow. Charles, who had been silently observing the display, tucked his newspaper beneath his arm and rose to depart as well.  
  
“I’m **sorry** ,” Nathan said. “Not all of us can shill appetite-suppressing gummy worms on SelfieSnaps.”  
  
The woman brayed a laugh without moving her mouth. “It’s called _spon-con_ , and that post got me $65,000.”  
  
“Well, some of us have **_dignity_**.”  
  
He knocked over an armchair with his hip.  
  
“And _some_ of us have _moneyyyyyYYYYyyyyYYY_ Y.” She flitted her fingers at him. “See you in my DMs, _Tonto_.”  
  
The temperature dropped as the door swung open. Leveling one last glare at the shop and all its denizens, Nathan stormed out.  
  
“ **God**.” He clenched his fists, lumbering to nowhere, Toki and Charles a step behind.  “I **hate** that lady.”  
  
He froze. A dark shadow of shame fell across his face.  
  
“She’s right, though, I’m probably gonna DM her.”  
  
“Sorries you losts your jobs.” Shifting his drink to one hand, Toki clapped a sympathetic hand on Nathan’s shoulder.  
  
“ **Nrrgghhhh**.”  
  
Charles opened his newspaper, then withdrew a single page.  
  
“Perhaps this might be of assistance,” he said, holding it out to Nathan. Nathan accepted with apathy.  
  
“Cool, a useless piece of paper,” he said. “I didn’t have one of those before. And now. I do.”  
  
“It’s the want ads. So you can find another job.”  
  
Nathan glanced down, rubbing the paper in his fingers. He returned it.  
  
“Thanks, but I don’t need this to get a job. One will turn up.”  
  
“Hows?” Toki asked.  
  
“Dunno. But these things tend to shake out in my favor.”  
  
Just then, coming from the opposite direction, a harried man with no regard for personal space barrelled through, knocking into each member with a surprising amount of force, considering his skinny frame. The coffee cup tottled in Toki’s hand; he clamped his other one on the lid to steady it. No spillage this time.  
  
“ _Excuse me_ ,” Charles said, brushing off his lapel.    
  
The man whirled. The strings of his red apron hung loose. Across the front in white lettering it read _Dick’s Organicks_.  
  
“Listen, I got no time to talk, babe,” he said, adjusting his round tortoise-shell glasses. “I got a _major_ shipment of vidalia onions comin’ in hot and my stock boy’s quack doctor claims he’s got a,” he clapped two unbent fingers into his palms, “‘ _spinal fracture.’_ I don’t care _what_ his lawyer says, that accident happened _off-site_. If he thinks he’s getting workman’s comp, he is **_sorely_** mistaken--”  
The man’s rantings ceased when he got an eyeful of Nathan. Taking a balletic step toward him, he poked at his pec. Nathan glared.  
  
“ **Don’t**.”  
  
“You seem like a sturdy sort of fellow,” he said, holding his hands out to measure the size of Nathan’s bicep, then comparing it to the size of his skull. “How much you bench, Big Man?”  
  
“Uh. How many pounds are in a metric ton.”    
  
“You’re _hired_.” He whistled as if calling a dog and continued on his frantic journey. “Let’s _go_ , we got merch to move. If I don’t get rid of all these fucking onions I’m gonna lose my _fucking_ mind.”  
  
Nathan grinned wolfishly.  
  
“See what I mean?” he said, then trotted after his new boss.  
  
Toki blinked, trying to process the whole bizarre morning. Were these the kinds of antics the people in town got into while he was cooped up in the village? Would _he_ regularly get into these kinds of antics, when _he_ one day moved to town? A strange but thrilling thought, to be regular.    
  
Charles watched Nathan’s figure until it vanished on the horizon, still holding the discarded want ads. Toki was struck with the sudden realization that he did not know Charles very well.  
  
“For the record,” Charles said after a prolonged silence. “When I ordered a double espresso and a blood orange scone and instead received a single large black coffee, I _did_ notice.”  
  
“Why didn’ts you says anyt’ings?”  
  
Charles tipped his head down. He smoothed out his red tie, already laying flat against his chest.  
  
“I, ah, didn’t want to make a scene.” He coughed. “Glad we avoided _that_.” ****

 **  
** **\---**   **  
** ****

  
Cleaning his work station after the day’s first satisfied customer, Skwisgaar tuned out the cyclical bickering coming from the foyer. Murderface was giving Pickles another one of his hairbrained elevator pitches. The week prior Skwisgaar would have chased him out with a broom. But sleeping more than an hour and a half a night had done wonders for his patience.  
  
“--We’re a grasschrootsch organizashun with a limited schtaff.” Murderface said. “We are passchion rich and casch poor.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Becausche of thisch, we have to be _schelective_ about where we dischtribute our materialsch.”  
  
“Wait, why are ya pushin that, don’, hey, don’ _knack_ that over justa _lean_ onnit, there’s plenty’a free space over--” A crash. “Fuckin’. Alright. Fine.”  
  
“Your schop hasch become one of the moscht heavily trafficked store frontsch in town.”  
  
“You’re _WELCOMES_ .” Skwisgaar preened, whipping aside the curtains to enter the foyer with the swagger of a 19th century magician. Pickles lolled his head over the back of his seat, let his tongue fall from his mouth and made a jerk-off motion.  
  
Murderface, sprawled across the front desk, cleared his throat.  
  
“BeCAUSCHE of thiSCH,” he continued, “the organization hasch found _you_ to be a worthy vesschel for our informational materialsch. Congratulashuns.”  
  
Pickles righted himself. “Whudda I hafta do again?”  
  
“All we requescht isch you dischplay thesche _very_ beautifully designed flyersch and pampheltsch. Perhapsch you could tape them to your front window? Schtand outside and hand them out to passchersh-by? It’sch your decision. But your participation is mandatory.”  
  
“Givum here,” he said. “I know where these belong.”  
  
Gleaming, Murderface thrust his stack into Pickles’s waiting hand with robust enthusiasm. Skwisgaar settled his weight into the doorframe, curious. Pickles closed his hand around the pile. His body remained immobile, but his arm swung out like the jib of a tower crane, away from Murderface and toward Skwisgaar’s work station. Pickles held there for a long moment. Then, with a quick twist of his wrist, he dropped the papers right into the garbage can.  
  
He fell into a fit of laughter as Murderface scuttled around the desk, dropped to his knees, and rifled through the trash  
  
“You know what?” he said in the spaces between Pickles’s riotous laughter. “I come to you in earnescht, and you mock my effortsch? I’m _embarassched_ for you.”  
  
“Ask me again,” he wheezed. ‘I’ll hava diff’rent answer this time, I swear.”  
  
The creak of the front door, and then Toki, dressed like a scenester hobo, sheepishly sneaking in. Odd, their study buddy session wasn’t for another 20 minutes. Also odd: Clutched in his grip was an **_I Do Caffeine!!!_ ** cup. Judging from half-full cup he’d left sitting in Skwisgaar’s kitchen during their visit, Skwisgaar surmised Toki was not much for coffee. Why did he have that?  
  
He flagged him back before Murderface had a chance to absorb him in his scheme.  
  
“I thoughts we was meeting ats Abigail’s for de study buddy sessions,” he said as he ushered him into his work station.  
  
Toki made himself comfortable in Skwisgaar’s chair. “Dat was de plans, buts I wanted to gets here earlys to give you _dis!_ ”  
  
He deposited the cup on Skwisgaar’s draft table and beamed expectantly. Skwisgaar eyed it with suspicion.  
  
“Dat for mes?”  
  
“Yups!”  
  
“It coffees?”  
  
“Yups!”  
  
“Ands you didn’ts puts any bees ins it?”  
  
“What? Noes, why woulds--what _goes ons_ in yous and Nathans house?!” His excitement deflated, he slumped back in the seat. “Dis was a seem-bollic gestures, to seem-bollize us being _friends_ . Ands you ruined its! Greats job!!!!”  
  
An unexpected pang of guilt burrowed into Skwisgaar’s chest. He took up the lukewarm cup, popped the lid, gave it a good sniff. Nothing _seemed_ out of the ordinary. Maybe Toki was just making an effort. Maybe he should do the say.  
  
He took a sip, waited for the immediate tell-tale signs of poisoning. When none appeared, he smiled.  
  
“T’ank yous…...for de giving tos of mes…..dis coffee.” Wow, making an effort was hard. “Dat was very...considerates.”  
  
He raised his cup in _salut_ . Toki, glowing once more, raised an invisible glass. At the same time, they sipped.  
  
“I gots to finds a cleans sketch pads, but den we cans go.”   
  
Toki leapt to his feet. “Does you needs help?”  
  
“Eh, go nuts.”  
  
Toki squat on the floor, flipping through mostly-filled notebooks, as Skwisgaar tucked in and out of the drawers of his work station. Every book he encountered was flush with drawings, alternate concepts for clients, unused ideas for unknown projects. A flash of something personal would surface, and he would slam the book shut and toss it aside.  
  
“Wowee,” Toki said. “You sure does has a lots of sketchpads.”  
  
“Ja, I runs through dem pretty quicks.”  
  
_Finally_ , at the very bottom of the very last drawer he checked, a sketchpad with more than 12 pages untouched. There _had_ to be an easier way of doing this. What if he got one giant piece of sketch paper? A paper the size of a house? Would that work? He’d stop by the craft store after work and start making some inquiries.  
  
He slapped the pad to his palm to get Toki’s attention. But Toki had long stopped looking for clean pads. Books lay open in a half-moon around him, a galaxy of color and experimentation and mistakes and successes. Seeing his art, messy though it may be, laid out before a captive audience made his heart seize.  
  
“Dese ams all for works?” Toki whispered.  
  
Heat crawled up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears. “Not alls of dem. Some of dems was froms my down times. _Euyegh_ . Well. Whens I _hads_ down times.”  
  
Toki tilted his head back, eyes saucery and emploring and manipulative and oh no.  
  
“You’ve gots all dis arts just lying arounds, I don’ts gets why you don’ts wants to display it.”  
  
“ _Eh_ .”  
  
He picked up a sketch of a Chinese dragon. “I bets Pickle would puts stuff ups if you asked. Oh! You coulds has an exhibits ats de library! Dey have shows for local artists alls de times!”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed. Not the ideal venue for his work. Then again, the library was frequented by old biddies. Spending time there could be a good way to get some new talent into the rotation.  
  
“Ja, I’ll t’inks abouts it. Anyway, let’s goes.”  
  
“You loves people telling yous how greats you ares.”  
  
“Yup, sure does, _let’s goes_ .”  
  
“Ands you _loves_ being de center of attention! I don’ts understands why you ams so resistants to dis ideas.”  
  
“Because if I has a show ands no ones come de only t’ings getting attentions ams whats a loser I ams.”  
  
Toki’s mouth fell open. Skwisgaar’s mouth sucked into his face, skin surrounding his lips creasing into a starburst.  
  
“How does dat, eh? How you keeps getting mes to says t’ings I don’ts wants to say?” His eyes thinned to slits. “Ams you a witch? If you’s a witch you gots to tells me or it ams entrapments. I knows my rights.”  
  
“Skwisgaar,” Toki mewled in a pitying murmur. Goddamnit. “Dids dat happens to you?”  
  
“Forgets it.”  
  
“You puts ons a show and no one cames?”  
  
“Toki, drops it.”  
  
“Maybe you just didn’ts has de right audience. Or the rights venue! Dat makes a _huge_ difference. If you tried agains--”  
  
“I asked you’s to fucking drops it.”  
  
Toki flinched at the spike in his volume and cast his eyes to the floor. Skwisgaar sighed, covered his face with his hands, squeezed at his temples.  
  
The vaguest mention brought it all back. So raw. So mortifying. The white room. Fussing with his pieces to hang straight. A wedge of melting brie. The space owner asking him to clear out early. Drinking the untouched, sweating bottles of white wine he’d purchased in the park four blocks from the gallery. The worst loneliness he had ever known. Falling asleep at the foot of his mother’s driveway.  
  
“It was a longs time agos.” He said at last. “I don’ts likes to talks abouts it.”  
  
Toki watched his hands, piled on top of one another in his lap.  
  
“It was my faults for t’inkings any of dose business schools dildos woulds goes to anyt’ings dat didn’ts involves sniffing some mega douchebag’s farts for an internships. Psh. You knows. Networking.”  
  
Toki tucked his hair behind his ear.  
  
“Sounds like,” he said, “it was _dere_ faults, for beingks de woirst.” A pause, then: “Fucks dem.”  
  
A light lit within him.  
  
“Ja, _fuck_ dem.” He gnawed his lip. “Sorries for snappingks at you’s.”  
  
“Sorries for nots listening.” He sat up, smiling wide. “Hey, we gots a handles on dis friends t’ing pretty fast.”  
  
Skwisgaar hitched his jacket over his shoulders. “Ja, wells, ams a fast learner. You shoulds _hueeeghhhh_ tries to keep ups.”  
  
Toki glared. Skwisgaar smirked, and slipped his hands in his pockets. His fingers grazed something. Oh. Right  
  
“I just remembereds, I has somet’ings for you’s.”  
  
Toki clambered to his feet, stumbling, disbelief weighing his limbs.  
  
“You gots me’s a presents?”  
  
His voice was so soft, so unassuming, so _surprised_ it carved a hole in the base of Skwisgaar’s heart. Of course he couldn’t respond with sincerity.  
  
“Psh, you _wish_ . I was just cleaningks out some of Nathan’s craps, and I wantsted to unloads some garbage. You seems de types to likes garbage so’s. Here you goes.”  
  
Withdrawing his fist from his pocket, he opened his palm, and Toki gasped at the pearl at the center of it. A small, plastic skateboard, no longer than two knuckles, neon green wheels and trucks with the board accented with flaming skulls. A kid’s toy. A non-effort.  
  
“Oh, _wowee_ ,” Toki whispered.  
  
“Ja, so’s, you know hows you tiny baby boards broke? Dis ams de tiniest babiest boards I could finds. Goods for takings your fingers fors a rides. Makes dem does a little somet’ings like _dis_ .”  
  
Applying pressure to the back of the board with his index finger, it jumped from the surface of his draft table, flipped through his fingers, then landed wheels down, his middle and index fingers pressed firmly to the board.  
  
Toki frowned. “You practiced dat, rights?”  
  
Yes.  
  
“Noes, dat was de first timed I’ve ever dones it.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“I ams really just dat talenteds.”  
  
“ _Wells_ . T’anks you for de gifts.”  
  
“It amn’ts a--”  
  
Toki laid his hand atop Skwisgaar’s as he did during his mother-induced meltdown. The same wash of calm flooded him. He quieted.  
  
“I really, _really_ appreciates it. T’anks you.”  
  
“You…...ams. Welcomes.”  
  
In the foyer, Murderface was running through his pitch once more.  
  
“And _that’sch_ why we’ve _got_ to _schave_ the community center!”  
  
“Oh waow.” Pickles spoke with the stilted passionlessness someone reading off a teleprompter. “Thank you so much Murderface that was so informative and good I will be sure t’put these in a place of importance and prominance.  
  
“ _Thank_ you, Pickles, that’s the kind of can-do attitude that’sch going to _schave_ the...wait, why are you taking my materialsch into the bathroom.  
  
“Because I’m gonna put them right in th’toilet.”  
  
“ **_HEY_ ** I schpent 50 bucks at Kinko’sch for thosche materialsch, that’sch _good schit_ .”  
  
“Oh, it’s shit all right.”  
  
“ **_I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU_ ** .”  
  
“NYEEHEHEHE YOU CAN FUCKIN’ TRY.”  
  
As chaos exploded within the bathroom, Skwisgaar stood, slugged on his messenger bag, and nodded to the exit.  
  
“Weeeeeee shoulds goes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Previous Study Buddy sessions had been fraught. Lot of backhanded (and fronthanded) snipes. Lot of stems snapped in half. Now, in the shade of their blossoming friendship, things were breezier. Skwisgaar still made Toki fetch him flowers from the most inconvenient places; Toki still placed the flowers juuuuust outside of Skwisgaar’s reach. But the framing had shifted. No longer combative, the sessions were playful, a joke both were in on. More than once, Toki came dangerously close to enjoying himself.  
  
Up front, Abigail finished an order for an upcoming weekend event. The entrance bell rang.  
  
Skwisgaar’s hair was coiled in a loose bun, suspended by criss-crossing pencils. By mistake he withdrew the wrong one, soft curls cascading down his neck and back. Afternoon sunlight illuminated him in a golden wave. He fluffed out his roots at the base of his skull, combing his fingers through the coils. Toki’s backside met the cold glass of the cooler. The other pencil clattered to the floor.  
  
Skwisgaar looked up.  
  
“Whats?”  
  
Toki blinked. “ _What_ whats?”  
  
“Whats you starings ats mes like dat fors?” He asked, pushing his hair off his brow with the flat of his palm. You’re weirding me outs, dudes.”   
  
“Oh.” He set down the white ranunculuses he’d been holding. “You’re hairs, it’s…”  
  
He held his hands to either side of his face and made a downward spiral. Skwisgaar pinched one of the curls, then shrugged.  
  
“Huh, ja.” His fingertips skimmed flower’s delicate swirl of petals. “It get likes dis whens I puts it up while it’s wets.”  
  
“It’s nice.”  
  
Ringlets tumbled across Skwisgaar’s shoulder. Head tilted to one side, he touched his canine with the tip of his tongue. The air in the room shifted. He lifted and dropped his eyebrows, tucked his hair behind his ear, and resumed sketching.  
  
“My hairs gets kinda wigglys whens I leaves it braids too longs,” Toki said, sitting opposite him. “Buts it never gets all Disney Princess-y likes yours.”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed. “You just ads-mits you runs around wif you hair in braids, and you calls _me_ Disney Prins-ckess-y? Pft, dat’s rich.”  
  
“It’s nots by choice,” he murmured. “I _haves_ to wears it likes dat, whens I’m at homes.”  
  
“...Oh.”  
  
In the front, the customer and Abigail chatted amiably.  
  
“May I ask you a question?” He said.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He spoke with the enthusiasm of an ensemble player in a community theater production, belting his only line to the back of the house.  
  
“Do you know our Lord and Savior--”  
  
“I don’t accepted solicitors,” Abigail countered. “Unless you’re making a purchase on behalf of your Lord and Savior, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”  
  
“Alrighty!” The entrance bell rang once again. “Have a swell one!”  
  
The door clicked shut.  
  
Resentment throbbed in Toki’s veins. Since he was a young boy, disillusionment with his father’s trade filled him like a smog. He endured his father’s sermons--both private and public--but couldn’t buy that recognition from a higher power came only through violent denouncement of diverging viewpoints. But voicing these objections was to accept a “private sermon” intense enough to break his legs.  
  
So when Skwisgaar rolled his eyes and grumbled, “ _Ugh_ . _Religions._ ” Toki pounced.  
  
“I _knows_ .”  
  
“De whole t’ings ams just a scams cooked ups by **_BIG RELIGIONS_ ** to sells more religion.”  
  
“Totally! It suck!”  
  
“Ja. I hads to goes to church once. Woirst ecksperience of my _lifes_ . De whole times I was just likes, _no t’anks_ .”  
  
“You t’inks dat’s bad?” Toki banged his fists to the tabletop. “Whens I’s not at works, I gots to goes to church _three times a days_ .”  
  
“ **_Yeuch_ ** .”  
  
“Yeps! Services ats sunrise, noons, and sunsets.”  
  
“Dat’s excessive.”  
  
“Tells me abouts it!”  
  
He’d torn off the release valve and crushed it to bits; there was no stopping the rush of frustrations. The legs of Toki’s seat _screeched_ against the tile as he stood.  
  
“It’s always de same bullshit, toos.” He paced until he ran out of room, pivoted, paced the same track in the opposite direction. “Everybody’s doomed, blah blah blah. Stands too close to a mens-troo-a-teeng womans? **Doomed** . Listen to FM radios durings a full moons? **Doomed** . Disobeys you father’s order to carry de sacreds Boulder of Shames to de tops of de Hills of Recompense even though you _nots_ disobeying hims you just can’ts carry _anyt’ings_ cause you gots a spinal fracture? **_Doooooooomed_ ** .”  
  
He was so fired up it took him a second to realize Skwisgaar was not contributing to the shit talking. Whirling back, he was met with a contemplative expression.  
  
“Whats?”  
  
Skwisgaar tapped his eraser to the corner of his mouth. “Huh. I’s just t’inkings. Pickle told mes about dese religious nut jobs what used to comes to towns and babble abouts all kinds of crazy shits. Nobody’s seen dems in years, though.”  
  
Toki froze. Skwisgaar rested his chin on his hands.  
  
“Where you says you lives agains?”  
  
Oh no. He’d been so swept up in the _excitement_ he got too familiar. Their friendship was so new; if he knew the truth about where Toki came from it could ruin everything. What if he told the other guys? What if word spread around town? What if it snaked all the way back to his village that _this_ was how he’d been spending his Errand Days? His blood ran cold has his mind echoed the only possible outcome: _Doom. Doom. Doom._ **_Doom_ ** .  
  
It was then Abigail returned to the workroom.  
  
“Abigail’s makings centerpieces fors an anniversary partys!” He screeched pterodactyl-like”  “Isn’ts dat cools!”  
  
Abigail startled at her abrupt inclusion in this conversation. But when she caught Toki’s eye, she snatched the baton without hesitancy.  
  
“Not just an anniversary party,” she said. “A vow renewal.”  
  
The notes of suspicion in Skwisgaar’s features vanished as he assumed his more standard expression: Judgemental disdain. Abigail could teach a master class on how to artfully change the subject.  
  
“ _Oofs_ .”  
  
“Right?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s great!” Crisis averted, Toki settled comfortably back into enthusiasm. “Two peoples who loves each others so much dey wants to re-affirms dere loves in fronts of all dere families and friends!”  
  
Skwisgaar and Abigail exchanged A Look Toki did not understand.  
  
“Whats?”  
  
“Toki,” Skwisgaar said, “vow renewals ams de marriage’s kiss of deaths.”  
  
“Whats! No dey ain’ts!”  
  
“If you’ve reached a point where you think a vow renewal will strengthen your marriage, then your marriage has been dead for a _loooooong_ time,” Abigail said. “Haven’t you ever seen an episode of _Actual Hotwives of Whereever-The-Fuck_ ?”  
  
“Ams you a fans of _Hotwives_ ?”  
  
“Oh my God, _yes_ , it’s such trash I love it so much. What’s your favorite season?”  
  
“Oh, Las Vegas, for shores.”  
  
“Me too! They’re all such _monsters!_ ”  
  
“Dere lifes choices makes me feels _so much betters_ about _my_ lifes choices!”  
  
“I know!”  
  
Toki changed his mind. _This_ was the worst thing that could happen to him.  
  
“You cynicals! Bof of yous!” Toki planted his hands on his hips. “You gots no sense of _romance_ .”  
  
“Now de guys what plays wif dirt all days gonna lecture mes about _romance_ .”  
  
“Shuts up! I knows a lots! Whens de last times _you_ dids anyt’ings romantic?”  
  
Skwisgaar considered the question. “Does BCCing an entire womens rugby teams _u up_ counts?”  
  
“No’s!!!”  
  
“Dude.” Abigail’s mask of disgust slipped, a spark of interest beneath. “Did that work?”  
  
Skwisgaar smirked.  
  
“You wanna knows whats ams _real_ romantics?”  
  
He waved his arms at the wall of flowers behind him.  
  
“Every single ones of dese flowers gots a different meanings. In de olden times, peoples would use bouquets to sends each others secret messages."  
  
Skwisgaar pursed his lips. “What times?”  
  
“You knows.” He raised and dropped his shoulders. “ _Olden_ . Looks, it betters if I shows you--”  
  
Scurrying in and out of the coolers, Toki filled his arms with flowers, certain if he made selected the right colors, the right flowers, combined them in the right way, Skwisgaar would be convinced his efforts were, in fact, _very_ romantic, and he was _very_ cool for possessing such useful, not-outdated knowledge. He’d had this exact disagreement with Abigail countless times before, but none of those arguments motivated him to _try_ as much as this one had.  
  
He laid the bouquet before Skwisgaar as though he were paying tribute at a sacred altar.  
  
“Okays!” He said. “Whats does you sees?”  
  
He clucked his tongue. “Somet’ings dying slowlys?”  
  
“No’s!” He paused. “Well, yeahs, but mores dan dat! Looks.” He identified each plant as he named it. “De gladioluses signifies infatuations. De alstroemerias signifies devotions. De calla lillies signifies magnificent beauties. Puts dem all togethers, and they tells de person dat someone likes dem a lots.”  
  
Skwisgaar stared at the bouquet, expression unchanged. Then, he scooped them into his arms and cradled them like he’d just taken the crown in the World’s Biggest Asshole pageant.  
  
“ _Magnificent beauties_ , huh?” He cooed, battling his eyelashes. “Ams dat how you t’inks of mes?”  
  
Toki flushed. This whole thing was a mistake.  
  
“Dis ams an _example_ of somet’ings I’d sends to someones I was tryings to _woos_ ,” he snapped, snatching his work back. “If I sents flowers to _yous_ , which I _never woulds_ , it woulds be a whole bunch of narcissuses.”  
  
“Uh-huh. Why’s dat?”  
  
“Cause it signifies dat you gots a _big fat egos!!!!_ ”  
  
Skwisgaar winked and made a finger gun in Toki’s direction.  
  
“I’ve been in this business 15 years, and no one has _ever_ asked me to use _flower language_ in their arrangements,” Abigail said. “The only people who care about that are the Victorians, who are super dead, and fanfiction writers who waste their time researching something that will amount to little more than light background symbolism.”  
  
“Ooh ja, dose peoples am pathetics.”  
  
“They need to reexamine their priorities. Both in writing and in life.”  
  
“Well!” Toki huffed. “ _I_ stills likes flower language. I use its in everyt’ings I makes. Ands evens if no ones else knows what it ams, it still make me _happy_ to puts a little extra meanings in somet’ings dat makes people feel goods!!!! Jerks!!!!!!”  
  
Closing his sketchpad, Skwisgaar chuckled and rose.  
  
“I t’inks we dones here,” he said, gathering his items into his bag. “I gots a clients coming in soons. Gonna bes at least a four hour jobs. Ifs I don’ts eat somet’ings before dat I _will_ dies.”  
  
As he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, Skwisgaar glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting with something that made Toki’s annoyance completely evaporate.  
  
“You wants to comes?”  
  
“Comes wheres?”  
  
“Gets lunch. I’s just goings to de hot dogs trucks ons de Greens. It amn’ts dat fars.”  
  
Toki was torn. He’d evaded spending money once today, and could easily do it again. Then again, his friendship with Skwisgaar was fragile--fragile enough that watching him root around a dumpster for a still-sealed bag of bagels was enough to destroy it.  
  
Abigail took the bouquet from Toki’s arms. “I’ve got things handled here. You should take your break now.”  
  
Her tone said what her words did not: This was not a suggestion.  
  
“Okeys.” He pointed to the flowers. “I cans takes dat aparts and puts dem aways whens I gets back.”  
  
“No, that’s fine. Rachel’s coming by later and…” she avoided Toki’s eye as a small smile crept across her face. “...I think these might be her taste.”  
  
“ _Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm REAL-lies!_ ”  
  
“Take your break. Before I break you.” 

  
****\---**   
  
**

At the center of town was a small park, no bigger than an acre, a grotto nestled among the brick and mortar. Leaf blowers whirred, guiding slices of red and gold into tidy piles. Children played tag in the drained fountain that would not flow again until spring. Parks and recreation staffers wound garlands of white lights around tree trunks and hung colorful non-denominational baubles from the bare branches. No matter the season, the Green attracted all sorts--families, teens on first dates, businessmen in crisp suits and loosened ties, fitness-obsessives trying to get their steps in. Here, people from all walks of life could commune, simply enjoy life, and each other’s company, in peace and harmony.  
  
Skwisgaar often reminded himself the Green was originally created as a place to hold public executions. The grass they trod was fertilized by the blood of the guilty. Pretty cool.  
  
A significant line had formed when they arrived--the truck always drew big numbers--but Skwisgaar trusted it to move fast. The cook’s speed, as well as the limited menu, all but guaranteed it.  
  
“You beens here befores?” Skwisgaar asked. Toki shook his head, wrenching his fists in the pockets of his hoodie.  
  
“I don’ts eats outs a lots,” he said. “I...don’ts likes to spends money.”  
  
The line inched forward.  
  
“Just sos you knows,” Skwisgaar whispered from the side of his mouth, “dis guys ams a great cooks, but he gots messed ups pretty bads in a grease fires a couple year ago. Gots a lots of pretty sick scars. Peoples can finds it _huuueeeeeeghh_ pretty off-puttings. Trys nots to stares.”  
  
“Dat’s fines,” Toki’s voice was small and farway. “Scars don’ts bother mes.”  
  
Skwisgaar turned to him. The breadcrumbs Toki dropped about his past and his home life set off sirens in Skwisgaar’s brain. It was weird for someone so aggressively honest to be so secretive about something. And what was up with that unhinged rant about religion? Willingly or not, Toki seemed to be leading Skwisgaar straight into a snake pit. Pushing the issue would not yield further answers. He had to be patient, wait for Toki’s guard to drop further, piece it together himself.  
  
After all, Toki was partially responsible for Skwisgaar’s income boost. _That’s_ why he was so invested in Toki’s safety. Obviously.  
  
They reached the front of the line.  
  
“Two rippers,” Skwisgaar ordered, “ands a cups of chili.”  
  
“ _Sssssssssssssseven-twenty five_ ,” the cook said.  
  
Skwisgaar slid a $10 bill through the window, waving the cook to keep the change. Toki eyes were wide, cash still clutched in his hand. Skwisgaar shrugged.  
  
“Dis ones on mes.”  
  
“Oh, _wowee._ ”  His eyes sparked with gratitude, and a weight in Skwisgaar’s chest loosened. “T’anks a lots, Skwisgaar.”  
  
“Don’ts t’anks me yets,” he said as he took up their order. “Dat means you gots to gets it next times.”  
  
They sat on the two-tiered, brick-and-slate base of the town clock--verdant green, accented in gold. Skwisgaar laid out their wares between them. Crisp hot dogs were bundled in beds of perfectly toasted buns. Skwisgaar popped the lid of the chili.  
  
“Nathan taughts me dis tricks,” he said as he spooned the viscous liquid over the hot dogs. “Dere’s no where’s in towns to buys a chili dogs. But wifs a littles _ehhhhhhhhh_ ingenuitys, you cans bends realities to your wills.”  
  
He handed Toki his meal, then took a massive bite of his own. He exhaled through his nose. So good. So bad for his body. So worth it.  
  
“I needs you tos explains dis to mes,” Toki chirped.  
  
“Whats, de hot dogs?” Skwisgaar said through another mouthful. “Ams just a cylinders of meats. Though it best you don’ts ask _which_ meats are ins dere--”  
  
“You hads a completes meltdowns cause you was so stressed abouts money.”  
  
“Eh. I don’ts knows if I woulds calls it a _meltdowns_ .”  
  
“You was hystericals.”  
  
“I was _a little choked ups_ . Maybes.”  
  
“How ams you nows totally cools wifs throwings your moneys arounds all higgelddy-piggelddys?”  
  
“Ten dollar for two hot dogs ands a cups of chili amn’ts goingks to break mes.”  
  
“It’s de principles of de t’ings!” Toki took a quick bite and swallowed. “You coulds saves a lots of moneys by bringings foods from homes!”  
  
“You t’inks I don’ts knows dats?” Skwisgaar didn’t appreciate the financial advice from someone who looked like he’d looted his shoes from a superfund site. “I ates ramen for nine meals in a rows.”  
  
“But it ams an unnecessary expense.”  
  
“You knows what ams an unnecessary expense?” He polished off his hot dog and helped himself to the remainder of the chili. He needed it more; the piece he was doing today was going to be a bear. “Booze. You knows what I’ll nevers stop buyings, no matters how cash strapped I ams? _Booze_ .”  
  
“Buts why comes?”  
  
“Because if I hads to muddle through dis meaningless existence sobers I woulds die. I woulds rather be deads than has to deals wif dat.”  
  
Toki twisted his mouth, still uncomprehending. Skwisgaar sighed.  
  
“Of course I’s still worried abouts money. But I’s makings more of it’s nows, and I’s tryings nots to lets dat worries control my lifes. Ands _dat_ means, _sometimes_ , as a _special treats_ , spending moneys on unnecessary t’ings what make mine lifes better. Likes booze. Or hot dogs. Or a cups of coffees.”  
  
Toki smiled. “You’s a lot less wounds up dan when we first mets.”  
  
“Ja, wells,” Skwisgaar laughed, “I’s also a lots less sleep depriveds. Pretty shore does t’ings ams related.”  
  
He tilted his head back to view the clock’s face. The hands clicked closer to the next hour. He stood with a grunt.  
  
“I gots to gets back,” he said, moving swifter than he should with a belly full of hot dog. “Mine appointment ams coming ins soons.”  
  
Toki trailed him. “T’anks agains fors lunch.”  
  
“Likes I saids, you’ll gets it next times.”  
  
“Hey, I _dids_ buys you dat cups of coffee todays,” he said with a glare.  
  
“You t’inks I don’ts know Nathan gaves dat to you for frees?”  
  
“Whats! He didn’ts…!” He puffed up, then deflated. “How you knows dat?”  
  
“Hueghhueghhuegh, Nathan stole _so much shits_ froms dat good for not’ings _clowns_ . We gots _so many beans_ . We don’ts have a grinders so’s I just beens eatings dem like candies.”  
  
“Dat can’ts be goods for yous.”  
  
“It absolutelys ams nots.”  
  
They stopped at the crosswalk. Toki tossed his trash into a nearby can.  
  
“Wells. I’s still very much appreciates you spendings moneys on mes. I know how hards you works.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“It’s likes. You works all nights, you works all days, to pay de bills you haves to pays.” He shook his head morosely. “ _Ain’ts it saADs_ .”  
  
_Ugggghhhhhhhhh_ . Skwisgaar fixed him with the dirtiest look he could manage, but it did nothing to wipe the self-satisfied one from Toki’s face.  
  
“Ams you fucking kiddings me.”  
  
“Whats?”  
  
“You t’inks you’s de foirst poirson to makes dat jokes? **_HUEGHHUEGH SKWISGAAR SWEDISH QUOTES ABBA ATS HIM REAL FUNNY GOODS TIMES_ ** . Be less obvious.”  
  
“You seems upsets,” Toki said, jutting out his lip in an exaggerated pout. “Chiquitita, tells me what’s wrongs.”  
  
“I’m gonna push you into trafficks.”  
  
“If you don’ts wants to tells me why you such a grumpy gus I understands.” Toki swayed his hips back and forth, unable to contain the devious grin taking over his face. “Buts I’ll always be heres for yous. If you _CHANGE_ your _MINDS_ \--”  
  
“Fuck offs.”  
  
“I’m de _FOIRST_ in _LINES_ \--”  
  
“How longs you beens sittings on dese?”  
  
“Since Abigail and I’s watched _Mamma Mia_ last weeks.” He shimmied around Skwisgaar, his back to the street, bounding from foot to foot. “Haves you ever seens dat? It’s really goods.”  
  
“Of course I’s seen _Mamma Mias_ .” Skwisgaar blurted. “I’s seen every Christine Baranskis vehicles, she ams a _treasure_ . Also? Dis ams a hate crimes.”  
  
Still grinning, Toki bounced off the sidewalk and into the bike lane.  
  
“No it’s nots.”  
  
“Wells, I hates its, and in dis moments, I hates _yous_ , so ja, pretty shore it ams.”  
  
Coming in hot from the top of the road was an intense cyclist clad all in neon purple spandex. Skwisgaar noticed him. Toki did not.  
  
“Toki--”  
  
“Now dat’s I knows how much dis pisses you offs I’m gonna learns de whole ABBA catalogues.”  
  
“Ja, okays, whatevers, cans yous--”  
  
“Gonna serenades you wif a new song every days!”  
  
“Toki, you gots to--”  
  
“Don’ts bother begging, pals! Dis ams happening! You’re lifes ams _over_ \--”  
  
“ **TOKI MOVES** .”  
  
Moments before collision, Skwisgaar grabbed Toki’s collar and _yanked_ him backwards, their chests crushed against one another. The wind generated from the cyclist’s speed combined with the brute force of Toki’s body hit his own knocked them both off their feet. They missed the concrete, Skwisgaar back instead hitting the grass, the ground softened by the unseasonably warm day. A weight sunk into him, hands gripped his shoulders, hair fluttered across his cheeks and lips, and when he opened his eyes he saw only Toki. This close, Skwisgaar could see his pupils were ringed in gold, his eyes a solar eclipse. Time slowed. Sound faded. Skwisgaar could only hear Toki’s labored breathing, and the pound of blood in his ears.  
  
The world started turning, the clamor of the park returned, and Skwisgaar couldn’t breath.  
  
“Toki,” he wheezed.  
  
“Yeah?” he answered.  
  
“Cans you…gets off ofs mes? You’re crushings my--”  
  
Balls.  
  
“--lungs.”  
  
Toki exhaled.  
  
“Oh. Oh! Rights, yeahs, sorries.”  
  
He clamored to his feet, then extended a hand to lift Skwisgaar to his. He pulled too hard, and once more they were flush against one another, close enough to--  
  
They each took a step back.  
  
“T’anks for--”  
  
“No problems.”  
  
“I didn’ts sees de--”  
  
“Ja, dat’s why I’s--”  
  
A beat.  
  
“So I gots to--”  
  
“Yeahs, and I gotta--”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“So.”  
  
“Sees you--”  
  
“Yups! Goodbyes!”  
  
Another beat.  
  
“We’s going in de same directions.”  
  
“Yeahs.”  
  
“Sooooo...guess we shoulds just…”  
  
“Yeahs.”  
  
They walked back in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

Offdensen Electrics was a bit of a misnomer, because Offdensen Electrics only sold one thing. The shop was a menagerie of lamps. Authentic Tiffany lamps with ornate stained glass shades. Antique bronze sconces suited for the walls of an enchanted castle. Luxurious chandeliers dripping in crystal, ideal for dropping on an unsuspecting audience of opera attendees. A labyrinthine assemblage of glass and brass.  
  
The shop was awash in a soft amber glow. Offdensen sat at his mahogany work table, glasses off, sleeves folded over his elbows, fingers deftly working the wires of a deconstructed desk lamp. His did most of his repairs in the shed out back--what he called _office hours_ \--but for smaller jobs he’d make the fix right on the floor. Entering Charles’s store, Skwisgaar became uncomfortably aware of every inch of his body. He weaved around floor lamps taller than him, ducked beneath rustic pendant lights. Nathan slouched against the work table, volleying an Edison bulb between his hands. At the opposite corner, Rose Explosion clutched the strap of her purse.  
  
“Thank you for your patience,” Charles said, bobbing his chin at Skwisgaar as he approached. “As soon as I’m finished we can discuss light fixture options.”  
  
“Please, take as much time as you need,” Rose said. When Skwisgaar moved into her line of sight, she beamed, and he beamed back. “Hello sweetheart, did Nathan tell you? We’re _finally_ renovating the basement!”  
  
She clasped her hands over her heart, a delighted _squeak_ escaping her.  
  
“I’ve wanted to tackle this project for 15 years, and now it’s happening! Ah! This is the happiest day of my life!” She stalled, glancing nervously at Nathan. “I mean, besides the day _you_ were born, honey.”  
  
“It’s okay, mom, I know how important this basement renovation is to you.”  
  
Rose sighed with pride, extending her arm and grabbing at the air with her hand. Nathan rolled his eyes, squeezed the end of her fingers, then released.  
  
“ _Thank_ you Nathan, you’re such a good boy.”  
  
“ ** _Mooooooooom_**.”  
  
Skwisgaar shunted aside the jagged edge of jealousy tearing up his guts.  
  
“Toki ams doesing a deliverys.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I needs to borrows de cars.”  
  
“Why’s Toki doing deliveries? Where’s Murderface?”  
  
“Eh, amn’ts workings todays,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Somet’ings abouts nots leaving City Halls til de _coward mayors_ meets wif hims abouts de **_hueeeeeeeegggghhhhhhh_** centers of communitys? Pft, I dunnos, I stopped listenings.”  
  
Charles frowned. “ _Coward_ is uncalled for.”  
  
Nathan palmed the Edison bulb, gaze sharpening.  
  
“I still don’t understand why you need the car.”  
  
**“** Cause dis dumb dildos can’ts drives!” Skwisgaar scoffed, incredulous. “Ands de deliveries ams all de ways across towns! Ifs he walks backs he won’ts gets here til closing times.”  
  
Nathan set down the bulb atop Charles’s tool box. He pulled his keys from his back pocket, a weight jangle of expired gym membership tags, tarnished silver bottle openers, and at least three keys.  
  
“Why’s that your concern?” He asked.  
  
“Why ams I beingk interrogates-ed?” Skwisgaar answered with a scowl.  
  
“Why are you being _weird_?”  
  
“ _Me_? Weirds? **_You!_** Weirds!”  
  
Rose touched her fingertips to her lips, and gasped.  
  
“Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh _Toki_ ,” she said in a low, knowing tone. “Is that--?”  
  
Sustaining intense, prolonged eye contact with Skwisgaar, Nathan smiled smugly and nodded.  
  
“Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh **_Skwisgaar!_** ” Her voice pitched up the way it did whenever she recounted plot points from her favorite TV romance movies. Which Skwisgaar found not a little  bit concerning. “Nathan’s told me all about your new _florist friend_.”  
  
Didn’t like _that_.  
  
“ **Has he nows**.” Skwisgaar met Nathan’s stare with fire, certain if he broke it, he would lose his already tentative control of the situation. “Whats he beens sayingks, exactlys?”  
  
“Just that you’ve been spending a lot of time together.” She looked sidelong at Nathan, lips pursed in a tight, secretive smile. “And that he’s been a very _positive influence_ on you--”  
  
“He beens a positives influence ons mine _banks accounts_. Nots much else.” Her grumbled.  
  
“I have to say, Skwisgaar.” Charles chimed in, pushing aside his project and wiping his palms on his slacks. “We’ve known each other for some time, and I’ve never seen you as relaxed as you’ve been these last few weeks.”   
  
“Relaxed?! Who relaxed?! I’m nots relaxed!” At least not _now_ , in this present moment. “I’ms _super stressed outs alls de times!!!_ ”  
  
Nathan pumped his eyebrows at his mother and chuckled.  
  
“I gotta agree with Chuck--”   
  
“Please don’t call me that.”  
  
“--Spending all this time palling around with Toki? It’s _changed_ you.”  
  
Skwisgaar sucked air through his teeth.  
  
“I think it’s made you soft.”  
  
His vision went red.  
  
“ _Takes dat backs._ ”  
  
“Just a fluffy, mewling, helpless little kitten.”  
  
“ _I wills fills your pillowcase wif bees_.”  
  
“ ** _You don’t know where I hide my bees_**.”  
  
Rose laid a hand on Skwisgaar’s shoulder and pulsed.  
  
“Isn’t it exciting?” she cooed. “Our little Run Around Skwisgaar finally found someone he likes.  
  
“Run Around Skwisgaar is her nice way of calling you a slut,” Nathan stage-whispered, cheesing. He was enjoying this _way_ too much.  
  
“Alls of yous ams beingks ridickscuelouse!” His swinging arm struck a nearby table loaded down with lanterns. He steadied each wobbling piece one by one. “Toki and I’s works togethers. _Dat’s it_. You alls just seeingks what you wants to sees.”  
  
Nathan interlocked and folded down all his fingers but his index, keeping them straight and pressed together to tap sagely against his mouth. He was still holding the keys, which smacked him noisily in the neck.  
  
“Or. Are you _not_ seeing. What you _don’t_ want to see?”  
  
“ ** _Whats?!_** ”  
  
Sure, Skwisgaar had been seeing a lot of Toki as of late. But Toki only worked three days a week, and not all those days required them to collaborate. Even when they did not have anything scheduled, Skwisgaar would drop by--sometimes on his lunch hour, sometimes to rant about a crazy client he knew would make Toki laugh.  The other four days of the week, Skwisgaar was quicker to anger, more annoyed by the minutiae of day to day. Spending time with Toki turned off the near-constant anxiety that made him feel like his skeleton was going to climb out of his body. It centered him in a way spending time with Murderface, Pickles, even Nathan did not. He assumed Toki was some kind of genetic mutant who exuded a pheromone that made him chill out. A human capybara. That was the only explanation he could come up with, anyway.  
  
“It’s like I always tell Nathan,” Rose said, “you can spend all this time looking for something, only to realize it’s been right in front of you, all along.”  
  
Charles cleared his throat.  
  
“As an addendum to that,” he said. “Sometimes, something you’re _not_ looking for, and may not even realize you _want_ , is _also_ close at hand.” He stared at Nathan’s back over the tops of his glasses. “Maybe behind you. Maybe slightly to the left.”  
  
“Rights nows de only t’ings I’ms looking fors ams de _car keys_ so I cans picks up my _business associates_ so we cans gets some _works dones_.” He made a grab for the keys and missed. “De only t’ings yous shoulds bes accusing mes of ams beingk _too goods_ of an employees.”  
  
“Oh,” Nathan said, holding the keys just out of reach. “Do you have a client coming in for a consultation?”  
  
“Noes.”  
  
“Got a study buddy session scheduled?"  
  
“Noes.”  
  
“So.” He said. “There’s no reason for the two of you to see each other today?” He said.  
  
The switch in Skwisgaar’s brain that controlled rational thought flipped off.  
  
“I...noes...ja...whats was de questions?”  
  
The backs of Rose’s fingers popped Nathan in the chest.  
  
“Your father and I used to do this dance,” she said, “when were were first starting out. Always making up _excuses_ to spend time together.”  
  
“Gross, mom, I don’t need to hear that.”  
  
Skwisgaar sputtered, “Dat’s not whats happenings! You know whats, I don’ts has to explains mineself.”  
  
He swiped again at Nathan’s fist, this time snagging his finger on the ring of a plush Gengar keychain. He yanked back and dislodged the set from Nathan’s grip, jutting his jaw out and making a course for the exit.  
  
"I’s leaving nows! To picks up my coworkers! Who ams not’ings buts dat! You weirdos! GOODbyes!”  
  
Maneuvering around the displays of table lights and specialty lamps while maintaining a hardened scowl was not easy, but Skwisgaar was up to the challenge. He contorted his body into absurd shapes, which served the dual purpose of protecting Charles’s wares while also alleviating the incomprehensible tumble of heat that surfaced in his chest at the start of this conversation.  Charles ushered Rose toward the shop’s collection of light fixtures. Nathan waved him off like a British royal, stiff and superior.  
  
“Say hi to your boyfriend for me.”  
  
Skwisgaar whirled back.  
  
“I _won’ts_!” He paused, the heat crawling up his neck. “Waits, I means, he’s nots my-- _fuck yous_!” **  
******

**  
** **\---**

**  
** Since Murderface had bailed for the day, Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven needed to pick up her order at the shop. Abigail called to apologize for the inconvenience, even offered a discount for the slight. Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven was accommodating. Understanding. Cheerful. Picked up her order without complaint. Only when she was face-to-face with Toki did she mention, _actually,_ she was hosting a party of a _significant_ size, and as she was just one _frail old woman_ , there was only _so much_ she could do on her own, and a helping hand would be _so appreciated_.  
  
And then Toki was in her town car, confused, carrying case filled with vases of Chrysanthemums quivering in his lap.  
  
“It’s just a few things,” she promised. “Won’t take more than a couple of minutes, then Armand will drive you right back. Abigail won’t even know you’re gone!”  
  
Only when they arrived did Toki see it. The round tables with their legs still folded down; the tent still unconstructed in the back patio; the heat lamps in a single useless clump at the end of the driveway. Only then did he realize how much work Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven required. Only then did he know he was trapped, until she decided otherwise.  
  
Hours later, Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven took her time steaming the last table cloth as Toki stood idly by, grinning blankly and fuming as much as the device.  
  
“My niece, you have to understand, she’s like a daughter to me,” she said, smoothing out a stubborn wrinkle with her thumb. “And she may have _said_ all she wanted to do for her 15th anniversary was take a moonlight hike with her wife, but I knew that’s not what she _meant_.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“So I said, _Carol, you and Val deserve to have the party you couldn’t have back then. Let me handle everything. I’ll make it perfect_.” Switching off the steamer, she fluffed the table cloth over the table, gently tugging at the ends to align it. “And she agreed! Eventually.”  
  
Toki plopped the final centerpiece in the middle of the table. “Uh-huh.”  
  
“As much as I _love_ hosting, I _so_ wish I could’ve been the first booking at that new event space Abigail keeps talking about.” She pouted. “Shame about all the delays.”  
  
Toki’s customer service switch flipped. “We hits some snags, but wes on tracks to opens by de new years!”  
  
She nodded. “Isn’t that _wonderful_.”  
  
Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven had always been a busy body, but ever since her husband died, she had a tendency to latch, leech-like, to any warm body that gave the slightest appearance of interest. Small talk stretched into hours-long overshares and invasive questions. (Abigail called her a “Chatty Cathy.” Which Toki didn’t understand. Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven’s first name was Lucille.)  
  
She was a nice enough lady, and Toki knew she overstayed her welcome because she was aching for company. But even the boundless ocean of his patience could dry up.  
  
“She and Val think this vow renewal is cheesy,” she straightened the bow around the vase’s neck, “but what’s more romantic than re-affirming your relationship in front of all your family and friends?”  
  
Toki perked up. “I saids de _same t’ings_!”  
  
The creases at the corners of Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven’s eyes deepened as she smiled.  
  
“You are just the sweetest thing!” Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven cooed. “Thank you for all your help, you adorable little dumpling.”  
  
“No problems!”  
  
“I mean it, you’re a doll!”  
  
“Wells…”  
  
“A peach!”  
  
Toki raised his hand, then let it flop over his wrist. “Oh, _stops_.”  
  
“You’re just a cute, itty-bitty, tiny baby bunny!” She reached forward and pinched his cheek with her thumb and pointer finger. “Just a precious, unthreatening, infinitesimal, insignificant little cupcake, aren’t you!”    
  
As the skin of his face vibrated fast enough to separate from the bone, Toki’s goodwill drained.  
  
“Okayyyyyyyy, ha ha, I _ams_ a grown mans, so. Please stops.”  
  
Her focus shifted to the space behind him.  
  
“I have one last request. Would you be an angel and finish decorating the arbor? That’s where they’ll be renewing their vows. It needs to be exquisite and you have such an _eye_ for it.”  
  
Toki beamed in equal parts pride and relief.  
  
“It woulds be’s my pleasures!”  
  
The cedar arch set up in the sunroom had already been draped with soft orange linens. Toki just needed to pepper it with some of the fresh cut white roses Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven ordered. Easy peasy. With luck he’d be back at the shop before lunch time. Skwisgaar had made a habit of stopping by on days they didn’t have anything scheduled, and he’d hate to miss him.  
  
As he worked, Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven supervised.  
  
“You’re such a sweet boy, Toki,” she said. “I can’t believe no one’s snatched you up yet.”  
  
A thorn sliced through the skin beneath his nail. He swallowed a wince. Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven squinted, the glint of a scheme in her eyes. She tapped a finger thoughtfully to the dip in her chin.  
  
“You know,” she drawled, “I have a grandson around your age.”  
  
A spike of anxiety knifed Toki in the base of his spine.  
  
“He’s _gorgeous_. Smart. Funny. You two would _really_ hit it off.” She gasped. “I should _set you up_."  
  
Toki’s numb, pleasant customer service smile warped and distorted with panic.  
  
“Dat’s, **really nice** of yous. Buts you don’ts has to goes to de trouble–”  
  
She waved him off.  
  
“It’s no trouble at all! I’ll text him now.” She tipped her head to the side. “Actually, you know what? He’ll be here in a couple of hours, why don’t you stick around?”  
  
“Dat’s nots--”  
  
“Meeting in person is _such_ a better way of sussing out chemistry, don’t you think? I’ll call Abigail to let her know you’re here.”  
  
No matter how smart and kind and wonderful this alleged grandson was, he would never understand Toki’s life. Where he came from. Why he concealed so much of himself. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Plus, Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven had such a big mouth, dating someone in her circle meant his trysts would eventually trickle up to the village, and if that happened…  
  
He brayed an insincere laugh.  
  
“I appreciates de thoughts, _really_ , I does. Buts, honestlys, I don’t _needs_ to be sets ups because. Because.” The words fell from Toki’s mouth like overripe grapes. “Because I’m seeings someones!”  
  
The gears shifted in her expression as a new, unforseen avenue of possibility unfurled before her.  
  
“ _Are_ you now? How _fun_. Who is it? Someone in town? Someone I _know_?”  
  
Oh no.  
  
“Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess.” She tented her fingers. “Is it that catering company fellow who doesn’t seem to own a shirt?”  
  
“Ums!”  
  
“No, wait, it’s that rat-faced young man in the open marriage with that sour girl? The ones who own the permanent make-up studio? Merci Houcoup?”  
  
“Ohs, no, uh, it’s uh, uh, uhhhhhhhh–”  
  
Ensnared in his own lie, Toki was flailing. All he needed was a name. Any name! Any name in the world! Yet he could not recall _a single one_. Failure crushed in from all sides. No escape but death.  
  
But then, salvation.  
  
“Uhhhhhhh, hi-los?” Skwisgaar said, shoulders hunched as he shuffled into the home’s foyer. “De driver guys lets me ins? I lookings for--oh, Toki, dere you ams.”  
  
Toki lowered the bunch of roses he’d been clutching to his chest. Warmth numbed his cheeks. The corners of his mouth tugged up.  
  
“Skwisgaar?” He asked. “Whats are you doings heres?”  
  
Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. “I heards you was doesing a delivery up heres, I thought I’d give you a rides homes.” He frowned. “Why everybody’s has such a hard times believings I cans just does somet’ings to be nice?”  
  
Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven glanced back and forth between them, glowing.  
  
“This must be him!”  
  
Skwisgaar’s mood shifted. He closed one eye, swept his hair dramatically over his shoulder.  
  
“Ja,” he said. “It ams me.”  
  
“The _lucky_ man.”  
  
“I has beens described many ways…”  
  
“The boyfriend!”  
  
Skwisgaar flushed. “De whos in de whats nows?”  
  
“Daaaaaaaaat he is!” Toki floated between the tables, swept passed Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven, and with arms outstretched, folded a confused, rigid Skwisgaar into an intimate embrace. “My boyfriends! Because we’re dating! Each others! Ha ha!”   
  
“ _Whats de fucks_.” Skwisgaar hissed into Toki’s ear.  
  
“ _No times to explains, please goes wif dis_ ,” Toki whispered.  
  
“ _Fuck no’s, gets off! OW._ ”  
  
Toki’s hold was lung-crushingly desperate.  
  
“ _Please! You only gots to pretends for a minutes! It ams de only ways dis lady will lets me goes home,_ ** _please_**.”  
  
“ _Fines, fines, I does it,_ ** _lets goes of mes_**.” Skwisgaar wheezed as he was unleashed, patting down his torso to check for broken ribs, the overdramatic asshole. “Uh, ja. I ams, hueugh, whatsever he says I ams.”  
  
“My boyfriends!”  
  
“Shore. Dat.”  
  
Toki twirled a strand of Skwisgaar’s hair around his finger. Tugging to draw his ear close to his lips, he said, under his breath, “ _It wouldn’ts kill yous to sells it a littles_.”  
  
The glimmer of a challenge flashed in Skwisgaar’s eyes.  
  
“ _Oh you wants me to_ ** _sells_** _it, eh? Alrights. I’ll fucking_ ** _sells it_**.”  
  
With a smile that could level a city, Skwisgaar looped his arm around Toki’s hips and deposited his hand in his back pocket.  
  
“I missed dis beautifuls little goodballs _so much_ –” He sunk his nails in Toki’s ass and _clenched_ “–I _hads_ to comes over and visit.”  
  
Toki winced. “Ja, Skwisgaar’s always visitings mes. Always...gettings a little too handsys…”  
  
“I can’ts gets enough of _dis faaaaaace_.”  
  
He pinched Toki’s cheeks between his thumb and middle finger, hard enough to make his lips pucker, and Toki was beginning to question if this was truly the better alternative. Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven clapped in glee.  
  
“You two are just _adorable_.” Eyes skipping down to the completed tablescapes before her, her mouth made a flat slanted line. “Skwisgaar, darling, you’re tall, would you mind helping Toki finish off the arbor?”  
  
“Anyt’ings for mys prince,” he purred, touching his palm to Toki’s cheek in a way that made a lightning bolt shoot up his spine. He released, took the flowers, made his way to the arch.  
  
The fuzz of annoyance did not dissipate when Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven fluttered beside him. While Skwisgaar haphazardly stabbed roses into whatever space available, she muttered, “You two are something else.  
  
“Yeahs, he’s…” he tried to think of a flattering descriptor and found none. “...somet’ings.”  
  
Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven smacked him in the bicep. “Don’t do that!”  
  
“Does whats?”  
  
“Downplay how you feel about him.”  
  
“I…” His cheeks grew warm. “I nots…”  
  
“The moment he walked in it was all over your face.” She continued. “You _lit up_ when you saw him."  
  
“Whats? Noes I…” He looked her in the eye. “Really?”  
  
Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven smiled, twinkling with a knowledge Toki was too young, or too stupid, to comprehend.  
  
“There’s only one thing that makes someone look at someone the way _you_ looked at _him_.”  
  
Maybe he did look at Skwisgaar differently than anyone else. Skwisgaar had built himself from the ashes of his shitty childhood, made himself new. Skwisgaar had an apartment and friends and a life. He was resilient, and self-reliant, and pushed himself to do better than he’d done the day before. Skwisgaar was admirable. When Toki imagined his future, he saw Skwisgaar. Because of how much he wanted to emulate him. Of course.  
  
Without another word, Toki slipped away, siddling up to Skwisgaar beneath the arch.  
  
“Hey,” he said, taking up a rose, “dids Abigail sends you to picks me ups?"  
  
“Noes.”  
  
“Sos who asked yous to comes?”  
  
“No ones asked mes to comes,” he grumbled, jamming the final flower into the last available space. “I just cames. Jeez, last times I does yous a favors.”  
  
“...Ohs.”  
  
Across the room, Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven sighed.  
  
“You two are _too much_!”  
  
At the prompt, Skwisgaar glanced over his shoulder and grinned, spinning Toki into his embrace.  
  
“Mmmmmm yups.” Toki said. “I loves...spending times wif _dis_ guys. I don’ts wants to murder hims at all.”  
  
Skwisgaar flicked the tip of Toki’s nose. “ _Boop!”_  
  
“You need to cherish these moments while you can.” Her gaze grew wistful, her smile colored with a touch of sadness. “I miss Leonard so much.”  
  
Guilt hung heavy in Toki’s chest. Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven could be annoying, and nosy, and overwhelming. But she was a lonely old woman. Had Toki been wrong to want to escape her grasp so fast?  
  
“Oh! The two of you are standing beneath the arbor! You should **_kiss_**!’”  
  
He had not been.  
  
“I, **_whats_**?”  
  
She tapped her mouth.  
  
“A little one! Right on the lips! Come on, it’s bad luck if you don’t. Are you trying to doom my beloved niece to divorce?”  
  
Sirens blared in Toki’s brain, and he spoke without thought.  
  
“I... _no_. Whats? Dat’s a _weird_ t’ings to ask of mes! I’s dones a lots for you’s ins a professionals capacitys, lady, and dis ams over de lines. I don’ts owes you **anyt’ings**!!!!!”  
  
Skwisgaar’s palm settled gently in the small of Toki’s back.  
  
“Toki ams a little sensitives abouts pube-licks diskplays of affection.” He said. “Mostly cause he never dones not’ings wif nobodys before he mets me.”  
  
“Whats! Dat’s nots--”  
  
“Ja, he was ams a tiny baby birds, needings all kinds of guidance outs of de nest.” He smirked. “He ams fortunates to haves someones as _patients_ and _lovings_ as mes to guides hims in dis--”  
  
Grabbing Skwisgaar by the collar, he shut him up the only way he knew how.  
  
As first, it was awkward. Messy. An uncomfortable mash of lips. Toki intended the kiss to be quick. But when their lips touched, Toki thought it better to linger a little longer. Make it convincing. Make it special. Make him regret underestimating him. No tongue. Maybe a little tongue. A few extra seconds to show off. But then those few extra seconds passed. And Skwisgaar’s hands curved around Toki’s jaw. And Toki’s arms wound around Skwisgaar’s waist. And their hips canted. And Toki was out of excuses.  
  
When he broke he was dizzy. Color bled from the edges of Skwisgaar's lips. Toki tried to step back, but could not. Skwisgaar, doe-eyed and flushed, had not removed his hands from Toki’s face.  
  
“Oh, Armand!” Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven exclaimed to the driver who had suddenly materialized. “You missed it! Can you two kiss again, for Armand? He should see this.”  
  
“Okays,” Skwisgaar murmured, voice dreamy and distant, unwavering stare fixed on Toki’s lips. His trance was broken only when Toki clapped his hand across his mouth, preventing him from leaning in further.

  
“Weeeeeeeee shoulds goes!” Toki bleeted, sinking his nails into Skwisgaar’s forearm and dragging him to the exit. “Hopes you niece loves de events! See you laters!”  
  
“But I didn’t tip you!”  
  
“Drops de tips off ats de shop!” They stumbled out the front entrance and into the gravel driveway, where Skwisgaar was inelegantly parked. “Okays! Greats working wif yous! GoodBYES!!!!”  
  
They funneled into Nathan’s hatchback. Discarded chip bags flooding the passenger well crunched beneath Toki’s feet. Skwisgaar, staring wall-eyed through the windshield, struggled at the immobile steering wheel. Then, removing the car keys from his jacket, he jammed them in the ignition, reversed, then drove.  
  
It was quiet for too long.  
  
“So. T’anks for pickings me ups.” Toki said.  
  
Skwisgaar blazed through a yellow light.  
  
“And t’anks for going alongs wif dats whole pretends boyfriend t’ings.” He went on. Buildings blurred passed the windows. “You was pretty convincings.”  
  
“Wells,” Skwisgaar said slowly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You asked mes to sells it.”  
  
“Oh. Yeahs.”  
  
“Ja.”  
  
“Just seems dat…”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“For a seconds dere I kinds of felts like…” he stopped himself.  “Anyt’ings to gets Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven off my backs, rights?”  
  
Skwisgaar said nothing.  
  
“Boys,’ Toki said, “I’m glads dat’s overs! Kissing yous ams _de worst_.”  
  
Skwisgaar ejected a soundless, inauthentic laugh.  
  
“Likes kissing _yous_ was a real picnics.”  
  
“Gross!”  
  
“Blegh!”  
  
“Goods t’ings we never has to does dat agains!”  
  
“Rights!”  
  
Skwisgaar’s hair lifted from the warble of the car’s heat. He pushed his glasses up his nose with the back of his knuckle, the hint of his tattoo peaking over his jacket sleeve, and Toki felt the sudden, unexpected crush of disappointment cave his chest cavity.  
  
“...Rights.”


	12. Chapter 12

Their client rescheduled and Skwisgaar, not unsurprisingly, did not pop in for a visit. Toki spent most of his shift in the basement, re-inventorying things that need not be re-inventoried. He did not like the space beneath the shop, and did his best to avoid it whenever possible. It reminded him too much of the dank, windowless room underneath his parents’ house, the dirt floor softened by his blood and tears. He’d seen a lot of that room the past few days: When he’d returned to the village after Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven’s delivery he’d been careless, distracted, sloppy.  
  
He hungered for tasks to occupy his hands and his brain. If he lingered too long he drifted back. The softness of his lips. The delicate way he cradled his face. The press of his thigh between his legs, his body’s recall of the sensation blazing and blinding, all private moments consumed by the ache…  
  
They needed to restock window planters.  
  
With the work day drawing to a close, Toki ascended the basement steps, arms weighed and sight impeded by a stack of large clay pots. He deposited them behind the counter, and when he rose Abigail awaited him, fists tucked beneath her chin, mouth stretched into an unnatural, Cheshire Cat grin.  
  
“Are you ready to talk about it?”  
  
“Dere amn’ts anyt’ings to talks _about!_ ” Toki huffed as he messily untied his apron. “Don’ts acts likes you never dones not’ings crazy to gets Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven to leaves you alones.”  
  
“I may have climbed out of a bathroom window or three, but I _never_ made out with someone I’m _obviously_ into just to get out of a conversation.”  
  
The bottom strings of his apron refused to give way. He swung the garment around to wear it backwards, fingers fumbling over the tight, stiff knot.  
  
“It didn’ts means anyt’ings.”  
  
Abigail sauntered around the counter, swiped his hands away, and undid the knot with one pull.  
  
“How can you lie right to my _face_?” She moved his hair aside to lift the apron off his neck and over his head. “When you came back here the other day you practically had cartoon hearts spinning around your head.”  
  
A series of incredulous wheezes leapt out of his throat as he tripped to his storage cubby near the work room.  
  
“So I hasn’t beens kissed in a whiles! So whats!” His voice pitched well beyond the top of his register. “Skwisgaar makes kisses wif peoples all de times, I knows for a _facts_ dis ones didn’t means not’ings to him.”  
  
He tugged on his hoodie too hard, the sleeves bunching at his wrists.  Abigail folded his apron across her forearm.  
  
“That’s not what Pickles said.”  
  
Toki glanced up, adjusted his twisted sleeves.  
  
“According to Pickles, Skwisgaar was so spaced out when he got back to the shop, he walked right into an old tattoo machine.” She wrinkled her nose. “He had to get a _tetanus shot_.”  
  
The skin between Toki’s shoulder blades tingled.  
  
“Dat don’ts means not’ings.”Toki zipped it to his chin. The thin material of his hoodie was not designed to withstand the harsh winter rolling in. “He is _really_ dumbs.”  
  
Abigail, glowing with bemusement, quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“So all those starry-eyed proclamations you make to customers about _true love_ and _romance_ ,” she said, “none of that applies to you?”  
  
“I’s just goods at my jobs.”  
  
“You’re just being _willfully obstinate_.”  
  
“Hey! Dat’s de t’ings I saids about yous and Rachel!”  
  
“I _know_.” The tip of her tongue peeked through her toothy grin. “I’m being _ironic_.”  
  
“Okays! Wells!” With no good exit strategy, Toki tried another tactic. “You just backs-doors admits you’s into Rachel! Ha ha! You admits it! You admits-er! Let’s talks about dat instead.”  
  
But Abigail’s mission could not be derailed.  “You really like him, don’t you?”  
  
“I…”  
  
As he drew a breath, he let his head fall back. A clump of paint near the ceiling’s center had dried irregular as an abscess.  
  
“Just to plays Devil’s Anagrams, let’s says I _does_.”  
  
Abigail clapped.  
  
“Dere’s not’ings I can does _abouts_ it.”  
  
“Why not!”  
  
“Ones!” He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “We’s only just started being pals, and if I says anyt’ings it could tanks our work reel-ay-shun-sheeps. I _knows_ you don’ts wants us going backs to de ways we was at de beginning.”  
  
She clucked her tongue in confirmation. “Two?”  
  
“Twos! Skwisgaar was is de biggest sluts in towns! You knows whats dey says, you can’ts turns a spades into a spouse!”  
  
“Actually, the phrase is--”  
  
“Threes! And most important of lys!”  
  
His vision frosted at the corners. In his mind’s eye he traveled back; away from the safety of Abigail’s shop; beyond the bounds of this small provincial town; out where the roads stopped running; into the sparse wooden house where his father’s retribution for sins not yet committed loomed sure and sharp as the guillotine. His arm dropped to his side.  
  
“I’s not ins a position to dates _anyones_ right nows. Ands.” The undulating dread that accompanied him every journey back spiderwebbed through his stomach. His voice flattened to a monotone. “Ands I won’ts be for a longs times. So dere’s no points t’inkings abouts it.”  
  
Though the sun had yet to descend into the distant trees, the streetlights outside the shop flicked on one by one. When Toki snapped back, Abigail’s hand was on his shoulder.  
  
“What if I told you,” her tone was compassionate, absent of teasing, “you could be out of that position sooner than you planned?”  
  
Toki blinked.  
  
“While you were hiding from me by pretending to do inventory--”  
  
She held up a finger to stave off his protest.  
  
“--I got a call from the lead contractor. She wanted to know if I was available to come to the space on Sunday.”  
  
Laughing shakily, she took both of Toki’s hands in her own and squeezed.  
  
“For the _final walkthrough_.”  
  
Any trace of sadness was bludgeoned out of him by his all-encompassing elation.  
  
“ _Whats_!”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Oh my gods!”  
  
“ _Yes_!”  
  
One of them started jumping and the other mirrored, so to an observer they looked as though they were locked in a jubilant game of invisible jump rope.  
  
“I thoughts she saids it woulds be _weeks_!”  
  
“Money talks!” Her buoyant curls bounced about her face. “There’s still some minor formalities to take care of, but after that!!! The Greenhouse is **_open for business!!!_** ”  
  
Eyes glistening with tears, Toki pulled her into a bruising embrace. Despite his cheerful reassurances to curious customers, The Greenhouse’s grand opening always seemed as distant and intangible as the horizon line. But with Abigail’s dream within reach, Toki couldn’t help but think--couldn’t help but _hope_ \--his own was out there, too, hovering just at the ends of his fingertips.  
  
After a few minutes, Abigail leaned out of the hug and beamed.  
  
“Now all we have to do is come up with the _perfect_ opening event that both engages the local community _and_ establishes us as the premiere event venue in the tri-county area.” Her smile cracked with panic. “And how hard can _that_ be?”  
  
“I can’ts believes it. It’s really happenings.”  
  
“It’s _really_ happening. And none of it would have been possible without you.”  
  
Toki shook his head. “De Greenhouse is _yours_ baby.”  
  
“This is your accomplishment, too! I never would have been able to grease the right palms without the success of the joint promotion.”  
  
“Buts dat was ams your ideas, too!”  
  
“But _you’re_ the one who made it a hit! Regardless of how you feel about Skwisgaar--”  
  
“I _don’ts_ \--”  
  
“--the two of you have done something really special. You should be proud. I know I am.”  
  
Toki swelled with so much emotion he thought he would burst in a flurry of rainbow confetti--the way he’d always wanted to die. And as much as he longed to bask in the feeling, it faded as he remembered it was getting late, and he needed to return to the village.  
  
“So Sundays,” he released her, “I cans comes in early to opens, buts if you nots dones wif de walkthroughs by closing I don’ts minds locking ups.”  
  
“Actually,” she said, “I won’t need you on Sunday.”  
  
The thunderclap that boomed in his skull whenever he’d done something wrong deafened him.  
  
“Looks, Abigails, just cause I never worksed a shift by mineself don’ts means I can’ts handle it! I cans do a real good jobs wif de shop, promise!”  
  
“You would do a _great_ job,” she placated. “But I think it’ll be easier if I close the shop for the day.”  
  
He bordered on hysterics. “Easier for whos?!?”  
  
“For you!” She laughed. “Toki, I’m giving you the day off.”  
  
Those words did not compute.  
  
“What ams a...days...off?”  
  
Her gaze softened, her head tipping to the side sympathetically.  
  
“It’s a day where you get paid to not work.”  
  
He mulled that over.  
  
“I’s never had one of dose.”  
  
“Then it sounds like you’re long overdue for one.”  
  
An entire day to himself? To spend however he pleased? It didn’t seem real. He’d still need to come into town to fetch the village’s groceries--to maintain his lie--but after that? He could do anything! It was freeing! It was exhilarating! It was...overwhelming.  
  
“What do peoples does on dere days off?”  
  
An eruption of laughter roared from across the street. Through the windows, Toki saw Pickles, Nathan, Murderface and Skwisgaar clustered outside the darkened, locked up Please Ink Responsibly. Pickles was pantomiming a story, clutching his leg and wailing a guttural wail. Nathan and Murderface were doubled over; Skwisgaar was slouched against Murderface’s van, scowling at the cement. It was the first time Toki had seen Skwisgaar in days. His heart did a backflip. He swallowed hard.  
  
Abigail hooked her thumb at them. “Why not ask those dumb-dumbs? I’m sure they’ll have suggestions.”

**  
** **\---**   
  


As his so-called friends’ howling mockery swirled around him, Skwisgaar rubbed absently at his bicep, feeling the spot of the doctor’s prick through the material of his jacket. It was still sore, not that anyone had asked.  
  
“Leavings dat rusted old dildos machine outs was a work hazard,” he grumbled.  
  
His performance concluded, Pickles stood to his full, miniscule height. “Dood, ya woulda seen the _giant machine_ in the _middle of the floor_ if ya hadn’t been so goo-goo eyed when you got back t’the shop.”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed.  
  
“Oh man,” Nathan elbowed Pickles in the ribs, “you should have seen my mom’s _face_ when I told her they hooked up.”  
  
“We dids **nots** hook ups!!!” He spat the words as though they were spoiled meat. “It was _ones_ kiss, it only lasts-ted one single seconds, and it was all for makes pretends _anyways_ so nones of dis _matters_ cause it didn’ts means **_anyt’ings._** ”  
  
“Wow. So you love lying _and_ love disappointing my mom.” Nathan shook his head slowly. “Real nice, Skwisgaar.”  
  
Skwisgaar dragged his hands down his face and suppressed a scream. The guys were always poised for a pile-on, but ever since that stupid delivery it had been _relentless_. Giving him all this shit about his _feeeEEEeeeeLLLLiiiiiiNNNNggggSSSS_. How dare they. He’d never had a feeling in his _life._  
  
“You ams all way toos invested ins dis.” On a good day his sneer could reduce a man to ash. Today he was not so lucky. “Don’ts you gots not’ings else goingks ons in your pathetic little lives?”  
  
“No.” Pickles answered, affect flat and expression blank. “When yer naht around I stare at the wall an’ wait fer you to come back. Please. Indulge me. It’s all I have.’”  
  
“I’m on a rec dodgeball team.” Nathan laid his arm across the top of his head, tugged at his elbow, then reversed, grunting in a way he must have thought was impressive. “Playoffs are next week. In case you guys wanted to...know that. We’re, uh, we’re the number two seed...”  
  
“Fellasch.” Murderface helped himself to another spoonful from the family-sized, unlabeled can of baked beans holstered under his arm. “We’ve had a lot of fun here today.”  
  
“ _I haven’ts!!!_ ”  
  
“Well of coursche _you_ haven’t, it’sch at your expensche.”  
  
Skwisgaar glared.  
  
“But imagine, if you will, all the posschibilitiesch if you devoted your energiesch to much worthier causesch. Scahy, the fundraischer for the community center I’m organizing next week--"  
  
“One last thing,” Pickles interjected, “then I’m done, I prahmise.”  
  
Skwisgaar knew that wasn’t true. But it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. He sighed.  
  
“Let’s say I believe ya. Let’s say yer little fake-out-make-out was just ya doin’ a sahlid fer yer friend. If _that_ was the case.” He tented his fingers as he prepared to go in for the kill. “Why didn’t ya do the thumb trick?”  
  
Skwisgaar squinted. He glanced at Nathan, who shrugged.  
  
“The thumb trick!” Pickles repeated, wiggling both his thumbs as an explanation. “C’mahn! Ya gatta know the thumb trick!”  
  
“I have no idea what that isch.”  
  
“Me neithers.”  
  
“Really?” He chuckled throatily. “Guess I’m th’only onna us that did high school theater.”  
  
“Why does it sound like you’re bragging? That’s a _weird_ thing to brag about.”  
  
“Murdaface.” He held his arms out like an unarticulated plastic doll. “Wipe that bean gunk off yer face and c’mere.”  
  
Skeptical but never one to turn down a volunteer opportunity, Murderface did as instructed. When he drew close, Pickles sandwiched Murderface’s face between his palms, so hard his cheeks smooshed like marshmallow fluff. He yanked him down to his level, then planted a big, loud kiss square on the mouth.  
  
“Heys!” Skwisgaar could not control the volume of his voice. “De twos of _yous_ just kissed! Each others! You himpocrites!!! Let’s talks abouts dat and not’ings else.”  
  
“Aaaahhhhhhh that would seem to be the case, but it is naht so!” Still with one hand plastered to Murderface’s cheek, he glided his thumb over Murderface’s pursed lips. “Moments before impact, I _discreetly_ slid my thumb betwixt our lips ta act as a barrier, givin’ the _appearance_ of kissin’ without any _actual_ kissin’ occurring. T’was but a ruse! A jest! A jape!”  
  
“I don’t think they get it, bro,” Murderface mumbled as he moved closer, “you schould schow them again.”  
  
Pickles caught his puckered mug as though it were a high fly ball and his hand was a weathered baseball mitt.  
  
Skwisgaar knew all kinds of kissing tricks. Over the years, he’d done his fair share of kissing. And while many of them had been pleasant--some down right enjoyable--none had been as incomprehensible as Toki’s kiss. None had swallowed him whole, made him forget his own name, erased any and all thought besides **_this is so nice never stop doing this_** the way Toki’s had.  
  
But that probably meant nothing.  
  
“Look alive, stretch,” Pickles said with a smirk, and pointed across the street. “Here comes yer man.”  
  
He raised his head and sure enough, there was Toki, trotting toward them, wearing his ridiculous purple cat hoodie. It was way too cold for him to still be sporting that. Didn’t he have a winter coat? One of Skwisgaar’s more stocky hook-ups left an army jacket behind last year. Maybe if Skwisgaar dug around he could find it…  
  
Oh fuck he was here.  
  
“Heyyyyyya Toki!” Pickles said with a taunting lilt.  
  
“Hey Toki.” Nathan said.  
  
“What’sch up, Toki?” Murderface said.  
  
Three pairs of eyes trained on him expectantly. Skwisgaar tried to say a word of greeting in either of the languages he spoke. So he said, “Graybles!” which was a word in neither.  
  
“Jesus Christ, dude,” Nathan muttered into his ear, “you got it _bad_.”  
  
“ _Fuck offs_.”  
  
“Hi, pals!” Toki chirped. Then he turned to Skwisgaar, blue eyes shining, lips curving in a sweet, shy smile and said, “Hi, Skwisgaar.”  
  
And then, for a completely unrelated reason, Skwisgaar could not remember _any_ words, or how to use them. So he waved.  
  
“Skwishgaar, don’t be _rude!”_ Murderface sidled up and draped his arm across Skwisgaar’s shoulders. “Don’t you want to _schaaaay_ schomething to our _good buddy Toki_?”  
  
Skwisgaar slammed his fist into the rim of Murderface’s can, hard enough for it to eject from his grip and splatter its syrupy contents all over the sidewalk.  
  
“ ** _MY BEANSCH._** ”  
  
“Moidaface,” Toki said, “I needs de--”  
  
“My beautiful beansch! Skwishgaar you owe me 64 cents, you _dick_!”  
  
“Moidaface,” Toki repeated, more insistent, “I don’ts gots a lots of times. I needs de--”  
  
“Yeah yeah yeah, I got your dumb groceries, on schecond.”  
  
He lumbered to the back of the van, giving Skwisgaar a gratuitous shove. His body collided into Toki’s. Their eyes met. Toki giggled. Skwisgaar made a sound that was remarkably similar to a giggle, but could _not_ have been a giggle, because he was incapable of giggling. Physically. He combed all his hair over one shoulder and twisted it into a golden rope.  
  
“What kind of schick schad world do we live in where a man can’t even eat hisch beansch in peace?” Murderface griped as he threw open the van doors and clambered inside.  
  
“So Toki,” Pickles pivoted to him with a grin. “I hear you’re free this Sunday.”  
  
Toki brightened. “Yeahs! Abigail gaves to mes de days off!  
  
“Ain’t that a coinkeedink!” He whipped a slip of paper from his back pocket and stuffed it into Toki’s hand. “Cause it just so happens the event of a lifetime is happenin’ this Sunday!"  
  
“Godddddd not this again,” Nathan groaned. “We already said no.”  
  
“I’m not askin’ ya, I’m askin’ Toki!”  
  
“Asking Toki whats?”  
  
Toki was taking too long to unfold the paper, so Pickles finished for him.  
  
“The Annual Festival of Balloonin’ is back, baby!” He prodded the flyer where it read, in bold red text, **FESTIVAL OF BALLOONING**. “I scored free tickets, heh.”  
  
Nathan scrubbed at his eye with his middle finger. “Wasn’t the Chamber of Commerce begging people to take those?”  
  
“The Festival of Balloonin’ is this great event the coun’y has every year,” Pickles went on. “They gaht all these haht air balloons, and they launch ‘em all at the same time. It’s fuckin’ majestic.”  
  
Toki raised his head from the flyer.  
  
“Den whats?”  
  
“Then what _what_?”  
  
“Den what happen after dey puts de balloons in de airs?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Then you,” Pickles craned his head back, “then ya look up at the sky. And you see the balloons. And you say, ‘ _aaaahhhhhh the balloons, they’re there, naow_.’”  
  
“Cans you goes insides de balloons?”  
  
Pickles scratched the back of his neck.  
  
“Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaah but you gahtta book _way_ in advance. Plus it’s like $400 bucks. An’ yer only about 50 feet off the ground.”  
  
“So why you wants to goes?”  
  
“GREAT question,” Nathan said. Pickles flipped him off, but went on.  
  
“It’s naht just balloons, they gaht all kinds of stuff to do! There’s carnival food, there’s games, there’s a haunted train ride--”  
  
“Why’s there a haunted train ride? It’s almost December.”  
  
“Cause the event’s usually in October and they have a standin’ cahntract with the haunted train company.”  
  
“There’s a whole company dedicated to haunted trains? Are they hiring?”  
  
“ ** _Anyway_**. I ain’t even get to the best part. They gaht live music. And this year. The headliner. Is.” He paused for dramatic emphasis. “ ** _Cobras and Casks!!!!_** ”  
  
Toki frowned. “I don’ts knows whats dat is.”  
  
“ _Good_ ,” said Nathan.  
  
Murderface hobbled out of the van, a burlap sack full of supplies slung over each arm.  
  
“Lischtening to them isch like lischtening to White Schnake, while alscho getting your junk schmashed by a ball peen hammer.”  
  
“Don’t listen to these douchebeegs, Toki, they just don’t know how to _appreciate_ that _authentic LA sound_.”  
  
Toki took the burlaps from Murderface and hitched them onto his shoulders, crossing the straps over his chest in an _X_.  
  
“Whuddaya say, Toki?” Pickles pressed. “It’ll be a blast, the best way t’spend yer first day off. Are ya in?”  
  
Toki looked at the flyer. He looked at Pickles. He looked at the flyer again. Then, he looked right at Skwisgaar and asked, point blank, “Are _you_ goings?”  
  
Skwisgaar had already turned down Pickles many, many, _many_ times. Why would he drive out two hours to stand around in a field, butcher his stomach with over-fried food, and listen to some barely-metal nobodies who hadn’t been relevant since the Reagan administration? Sunday was _his_ day off, too, and he’d rather spend it unconscious.   
  
But Toki’s hesitant, hopeful smile triggered a flash in Skwisgaar’s brain. And before he realized what he’d done, he said yes.  
  
Toki beamed. “Yes?”  
  
Nathan fumed. “ ** _Yes?_** ”  
  
Pickles threw his arms in the air. “Yes!”  
  
“Don’t gets me wrongs,” Skwisgaar’s mouth had decided to cooperate with him again, “it gonna sucks super bads. But _eughhh_ maybes? If you deres? It sucks a little less.”  
  
Toki’s smile widened and Skwisgaar had to steady himself against the van. But then it faltered.  
  
“Oh,” he murmured. “Waits…”  
  
“Whats?”  
  
“I still gots to picks up all de groceries for my…” he coughed “...peoples I picks up groceries for. If I goes wif you I mays not has enough times.”  
  
Like so many hot air balloons would do on Sunday night, Skwisgaar deflated.  
  
“That’sch no problem!” Murderface bumbled into the center of the crowd. “I’ve done that run a million timesch, we can grab everything on the way back no problem! Can I come? Pleasche let me come.”  
  
“What the fuck is _happening_?” Nathan snarled. Then, to Pickles, “You **planned this** didn’t you.”  
  
Pickles smoothed down his goatee with his thumb and middle finger.  
  
“I knew once I locked in _these_ dum-dums, Murderface would flip cause he can’t stand to be excluded. And once all four’a us are goin’ you’d _hafta_ come cause you don’t have any other friends.”  
  
“ ** _I’m on! A rec! Dodgeball team_**!”  
  
“Whutever I win! We’ll meet here Sunday bright an’ early. 10 am?”  
  
“Okej,” said Toki, whose gaze had not broken from Skwisgaar’s. He began walking backwards. “10 am! See you Sundays!”  
  
Skwisgaar waved at his disappearing form. “See you Sundays.”  
  
Skwisgaar did not see him Sunday.  
  
He did not see Toki that night undressing in the black woods surrounding his village. He did not see him slip on the drab work clothes that disguised him to the congregation as the obedient reverend’s son. He did not see him dutifully deliver all the groceries purchased on his Errand Day with an extra bounce in his step. He did not see him bound into his house. He did not see him enter his room.  
  
He did not see him find, sitting atop his meager straw pillow, the tiny baby board Skwisgaar had gifted him.  
  
He did not see his mother, bony fingers enclosed around a  sunshine-yellow polo, his employer’s name stitched lovingly in bright green thread.  
  
He did not see the light of the hall vanish across Toki’s horror-stricken face as his father closed the door behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

The Festival of Ballooning fucking sucked.  
  
The previous night’s torrential downpour washed the field to a muddy soup. Winds grounded most of the balloons; the ones that launched were tethered to the Earth, hovering low enough to slap the bottom of their baskets. Game booths were swarmed by snot nosed kids and their sad sack dad pathetically filling their one-weekend-a-month. The haunted train broke down after one run. In the decades since their last tour, the band had made an uncomfortable pivot into crunchy Christian rock. A single bite of a rubbery cheesesteak turned Skwisgaar’s stomach inside out. He spent most of the day scowling in the back of Murderface’s van, his first day off in months a total bust.  
  
Worst of all was how, had Toki been there, those things would not have bothered him at all. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have even _noticed_.  
  
But Toki didn’t need to know that.  
  
“Wells wells wells,” Skwisgaar drawled as he burst into Morbud Curiosity days later. “How de toirn tables. Alls dat whining abouts hows _I’m_ nevers on times ands? What happens? Whens de foots ams ons de other shoes? Eh? Too bads because dat festivals was _hueeeeghhhhhh_ probably de best times I ever haves doing anyt’ings in my entire lifes, so, it _your_ loss...”  
  
He trailed off. The shop’s energy had shifted. Toki’s obnoxious cat sweatshirt was not hanging from it’s usual peg. His cubby was empty. The back room, always in immediate disarray after Toki’s arrival, was spotless. Skwisgaar checked the chalkboard calendar painted on the opposite wall. Their study buddy session was scheduled for today. So where was Toki?  
  
The embarrassed disappointment suctioned to the inside of his chest since Sunday unlatched. Something else replaced it.  
  
Abigail stood behind the counter, back to Skwisgaar, arm folded across her stomach, phone anchored between her shoulder and ear.  
  
“Yes, I know Murderface usually does the pick ups.” Her voice was reedy. “But I was wondering if my floral assistant came by instead?” Pause. “About 5”10, brown hair, blue eyes, smiles a lot.” Pause. “Okay.” Pause. “Okay. Thanks, Denise, I appreciate it. You too. Bye."  
  
She dropped the phone to the counter top and pressed her hand to her mouth, exhaling a ragged breath through her fingers.  
  
“Abigail?”  
  
She turned to him, a scattershot unease in her movements Skwisgaar had never seen before.  
  
“Did Toki go to the tattoo parlor this morning?”  
  
“Noes.” His vexation returned in a rush. “ I hasn’t seens him since he _ghosted_ us on Sundays. Psh.”  
  
She gnawed on the cuticle of her index finger.  
  
“He never came Sunday, either?” She squeezed her eyes shut, covering one with her palm like an eye patch. “Oh God. Oh God.”  
  
Skwisgaar slid his bag off his shoulder and to the floor. He approached the counter with a stilted, tentative stride.  
  
“Abigail,” he said, “what’s going ons?”  
  
Without opening her visible eye, she answered, “Toki didn’t come in for his shift today.”  
  
“Maybe he just over-sleeps?”  
  
“Toki’s _never_ missed a shift.”  
  
“Or maybes he gots distracts-ted ons his ways to work bys a butterfly ors a stray cats ors a shinys piece of garbage.” Skwisgaar said. “He is _really_ dumbs.”  
  
“Oh God,” she muttered. “They found out. How did they find out? I thought he was being careful--”  
  
Skwisgaar closed his fingers around her wrist and peeled her hand from her face. She looked at him.“Dey who?” he asked as he released. “Founds out whats?”  
  
Abigail scanned him, pupils twitching as though calculating an impossible mathematical figure. Bright green eyes creased at the edges.  
  
“You weren’t living here when that religious group would come to town to preach, were you?”  
  
Skwisgaar shook his head no.  
  
She ducked beneath the counter and resurfaced with a laptop.  
  
“I need to show you something.”  
  
With a few quick taps she pulled up a video titled **_CRAZY HOMOPHOBE NAILED WITH GLITTER BOMB AT PRIDE ORIGINAL VERSION LIKE COMMENT SUBSCRIBE._**  Skwisgaar hunkered down on his forearms to better view the screen. A cluster of run-of-the-mill bigots raised black and white protest signs against a colorful churning backdrop. Attendees outfitted in rainbow garb shot them dirty looks or ignored them completely. One girl looked directly into the camera, split her fingers into a _V_ , and waggled her tongue between them.  
  
“Abigail, why ams you--?”  
  
“Just watch.”  
  
Their leader stuck out among them like a crooked nail, dressed as though he’d just returned from a 19th century funeral. Skwisgaar did not recognize the man, but something about him echoed with familiarity. The blunt square of his nose. The timid slope of his jaw. The watery blueness of his eyes, like the runoff from a melting snow drift.  
  
The leader’s mouth fell open moments before he was pummelled in the face by an explosion of glitter. A bolt of laughter cracked the silence. The crowd erupted into gleeful jeers; the image vibrated with the shooter’s uncontrollable giddiness. The leader whirled about in glimmering fury, dodging chants and half-eaten snow cones, and when his gaze returned to the still-running camera his pale eyes flared with rage. The video cut to black.  
  
Abigail paused with seconds remaining. “Did you see it?”  
  
“Uh. Sees what, eggs-gaktly?”  
  
“Watch.” She backtracked to the midpoint and pointed to a spot just over the leader’s shoulder. “Right there.” She clicked play.  
  
The video played out same as before. The girl and her tongue. The leader. The glitter bomb. The laughter. But then, something new. The image froze just as the signs behind the leader parted. And there, in the space between them, no older than 17, face contorted in dangerous, unselfconscious delight, was Toki.  
  
“I don’ts understands,” was an understatement.   
  
“When I found Toki smashing up my greenhouse last year,” Abigail said, “I recognized him right away. And I couldn’t just send him back to those people without an escape plan.”  
  
Skwisgaar’s eyes clicked from the screen, to Abigail, to the empty wall peg.  
  
She continued: ”I gave him a job, arranged for Murderface to pick up all his groceries, and tried to weed out as much of that backwoods bullshit they planted in him. It wasn’t always easy. But he’s a good worker. And he’s a great guy.”  
  
This information had flooded his brain’s engine. His body stalled out. He said nothing.  
  
Abigail twisted the ends of her hair around her middle finger and said, “he doesn’t know I know where he came from. He thinks he was being _discreet_.” She chuckled breathily. “Toki’s a lot of things, but _discreet_ isn’t one of them.”  
  
Toki’s skittishness discussing his family. Toki’s vehement hatred of religion. Toki’s obsessive saving of every cent he earned.  Links in a chain Skwisgaar failed to notice until it was wrapped around his windpipe. Skwisgaar knew his home life was bad. But how could he have anticipated this?  
  
“Why didn’ts you says anyt’ings?” was all he could ask.  
  
“I wanted to gain his trust.” Her hand had drifted out of her hair and to the green pendant hanging in the hollow of her throat. “Then we became friends, and there were less opportunities to be like, _hey, no big deal, but I know you’re trapped in a crazy cult in the woods_. Then.”  
  
Her fingers wrenched in the necklace’s gold chain.  
  
“We had all these plans. I was gonna open the event space, I’d make him shop manager, he’d get to spend more time with you...”

  
Skwisgaar flushed. “Whats?”  
  
“I never wanted to compromise his safety.” Her composure fissured, tears springing to her eyes. “But what if I made a bad call? What if trying to help him put him in more danger? Skwisgaar, what if he’s really hurt _and it’s all my fault_?”  
  
Being in the presence of a woman in distress kicked Skwisgaar’s body into autopilot. He rounded the counter, laid his hands on her upper arms and pulled her into a firm, tender embrace. She thumped her forehead to his chest, clawed her nails into his shoulder blades, and the sensation of another body pressed tight against his sent a jolt of comfort through his nervous system.  
  
Abigail took a look, deep inhale. Her grip loosened, but did not disengage.

  
“You’re a surprisingly good hugger.”  
  
“Surprisinglys?”  
  
“You’re very bony. I didn’t expect it.”  
  
His chin fit comfortably in the part of her hair. “Ins mine travels I has encounters _hueeeeeeeggghhhhhhh_ a greats many number of ladies in needs of consolings. You eithers git goods or git slapped.”  
  
She giggled, the sound muffled and wet. The laugh died.

  
“He thinks I don’t notice when he comes in with bruises or lacerations,” she murmured. “I don’t know what those people out there capable of, and that’s what scares me the most.”   
  
On the countertop, the laptop glowed. The leader’s warped face, leathery crevices shimmering, filled the screen. But beyond him, at the base of the cresting wave of the crowd, Toki’s once jubilant expression had shifted. His watery blue eyes round, his thin mouth tight as an asterisk. A child who’d just realized he’d committed a grave transgression, and was going to pay for it.   
  
Skwisgaar’s veins swelled with blood thickened by rage.  
  
“Dis cult ins de woods,” Skwisgaar said, his tone and his resolve hardening with each word, “you knows wheres it ams?”  
  
Abigail leaned back.  
  
“I have a general idea.”  
  
He untangled himself and made a beeline to the exit.  
  
“Locks ups de shop,” he said. “Den brings your car arounds fronts.”  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
He applied too much pressure to the door; the knob slammed into a display of black-eyed susans.  
  
“To tells Pickle I’m takes-king de rest of de days off.”  
  
As he strode into the street, Skwisgaar was sure of two things. He was going to find Toki. And he was going to bring him back.

**\---**

The narrow, unpaved road jostled the car from side to side, the rear view mirror filled with the brown plume of kicked-up dust. Surrounding them was an endless throng of ashy trees. Abigail drove slow, careful, signaling at turns despite not spotting another car for miles. Skwisgaar stretched his legs to their full length in the passenger side well, thumbing the thin line of plastic jutting off the cap of the marker he’d found in his pocket. They had not spoken since they departed. It was quiet, save for the dulcet tones of public radio Abigail had as a preset and Skwisgaar had been too distracted to ask to change.  
  
**“--Next, hear how one Finnish town was able to turn its worst tragedy into a popular tourist attraction.”  
  
****_“De troll, he comes, he tear mine husband in halfs. He rip de bones out mine son’s back like herring. He eat mine sister’s hearts. Heh heh, I says somet’ings likes dat, you knows? Tours loves it whens you lays it on thicks.”  
  
_****“Coming up, ‘Marketing Mustakrakiah.’** **For WMTL, I’m Richard Hake. Now, the headlines--** ** _”  
  
_**Abigail switched the radio off.  
  
“Thank you.” She did not tear her eyes from the road. “For doing this with me.”  
  
Skwisgaar flicked the pen cap harder. “It’s not’ings.”  
  
“It’s _not_ nothing. You know that.”  
  
Skwisgaar rolled his head toward his window. The vehicle was not moving fast, but to Skwisgaar, the outside was a blur.  
  
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m sure Toki was looking forward to spending Sunday with you, too.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“You can admit you’re worried.”  
  
“Worried?” The flimsy plastic of the marker cap shattered in his hand. “I’s just doesing whatever I’d does for any of my work associates. Nots likes I cans gets anyt’ings dones til we gets him backs anyways. Pft.”  
  
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” She laughed dryly. “I swear, you two are _made_ for each other.”  
  
“I amn’ts--” He paused. “What you means, dids he says somet’ings...?”  
  
But his inquiry would have to wait. Abigail cut the engine.  
  
“We’re here.”  
  
In a meager clearing before them stood a village. Squat buildings were encircled by a wooden fence, incomplete as a mouthful of missing teeth. Tufts of grey smoke puffed from brick chimneys. The branches of the trees circumferenting the village grazed the rooftops, like the trunks were craning to listen for secrets. Clusters of hunched masses--dressed in uniform brown overalls, button-ups, slacks--picked through the brush. The backs of Skwisgaar’s ears burned.  
  
Abigail unclicked her seatbelt.  
  
“Let me take the lead on this.”  
  
Skwisgaar made to open his door, but was follied when Abigail hit the lock button. He reached for the handle, shrank from it.  
  
“These people don’t like outsiders. And you’re a little feral right now.”  
  
Skwisgaar touched at the corners of his mouth to check for foam.   
  
“Skwisgaar.” It took him a moment to realize her hand was on his knee. “It’s okay.”  
  
“Psh.” He did not look at her, drew his legs in so his thigh filled her palm. “Whatevers.”  
  
The doors unlocked, and he was out, the backs of his eyes pulsating. They’d parked a few dozen feet from the village, the car slouched alongside a ditch. Abigail shook her shoulders out and smoothed back her hair. Her lips opened to reveal her teeth. She lifted one hand in the direction of the villagers.  
  
“Hello!”  
  
The villagers looked up in unison. They looked at one another, Then, they scattered like a flock of ducks rising from the march at the first misfired shot of a hunter’s rifle. They moved swift, heads bowed. Most had already passed through the village gate before Abigail had a chance to futilely call, “I just want to talk!”  
  
“Nice works,” Skwisgaar hissed.   
  
At their rear was a heavyset man, oily black hair hanging in a loose ponytail down his neck, looking very put out at having to make any sort of exertion. Abigail glared at Skwisgaar, nodded toward the man, then trotted after him. Skwisgaar trailed. It did not take much to catch up.  
  
“Hi!” Abigail said cheerfully when they flanked him. “I’m--”  
  
“Who you ares ams irrelevants.” The man answered in a monotone. “Whatevers you lookings fors you wills not finds, because no ones here will speaks wif yous.”  
  
Abigail’s smile was unnatural. “You’re speaking with us.”  
  
‘“I does nots subscribes to de archaic power structure enforced by Reverends Wartooth.” He sneered. “Plus I’s pretty boreds.”  
  
**_Reverend Wartooth_**.   
  
“Reverend Wartooth is who we’re curious about,” Abigail went on. “We’re familiar with his son, the boy who runs errands? We didn’t see him today. Did the reverend have an issue with our customer service? We’d love to discuss any problems with him face to face.”  
  
“De reverend t’inks little of you towns folks.” He rolled his eyes. “He t’inks little of his son, toos.”    
  
“Where’s Toki?” Skwisgaar growled, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself. The man hesitated, his gait slowing and extending. He squinted. His pace quickened.  
  
“Just because I _cans_ speaks wif yous don’ts means I _wants_ to. I ain’ts seens de reverend’s sons in months. Excuse mes, service ams starting soons, ands if I ams lates my absents wills be noted, so’s…”  
  
The man brushed them off, ambling quicker to the village entrance. Skwisgaar narrowed his eyes at the back of the man’s head. He glanced up at the sun. He glanced at the face of his phone. 2:03. Toki’s voice reverberated in his skull.  
  
_“Whens I’s not at works, I gots to goes to church three times a days. Services ats sunrise, noons, and sunsets.”_  
  
He lashed out, snatched the man’s ponytail out of the air, and yanked him backwards. When he stumbled, Skwisgaar laid his forearm across his chest and slammed him hard into a nearby tree. A move he’d often watched Nathan employ, but never attempted himself until now. He was proud of his execution.  
  
“ ** _Where’s Toki?_** ”  
  
Abigail seized the back of his collar, but did not pull him away.  
  
“Skw...What are you _doing?_ ”  
  
“I knows you lyings abouts going to service,” Skwisgaar said, pushing his arm up to graze the man’s Adam’s apple. “So I knows you lying about Toki. Where **_is he_**?”  
  
Skwisgaar, at his heart, was not a violent person. Though he’d been frothing when he made the threat, he had no idea how to follow up. The man seemed to sense this. He glimpsed at Skwisgaar’s arm, the skin visible above the ruched sleeve of his jacket. The man lowered his chin to his chest.  
  
“De reverend views hims son as de harbingers of ill intents. Nots just for dis village, buts for de woirlds at large. Because of dis, he has endured much sufferings.” The smug defiance of his gaze abated, just for a moment, and his eyes locked on the winding ink embedded into his skin. “You bares whats de reverend calls _de markings of the servants to the beast of seven backs_.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm but his intent was steady. “How I knows you won’ts wisks him offs for more suffering?”  
  
Skwisgaar was so mired in anger and guilt and anxiety and another thing he would not address, he did not have an adequate answer. But the thought of never seeing Toki again opened a chasm in him he could not explain.  
  
“Because.” He warbled. “He’s my friends.”  
  
The man’s mouth, set in a hard line, flattened. His beady eyes lost their sharpness. He looked to Abigail, looked back at Skwisgaar. He nudged off Skwisgaar’s arm and crossed his own.  
  
“Dere has beens many rumors of de reverend’s sons since hims decent intos de hellmouths what ams your towns.” He held up his palms. “De reverends words, not mines. Buts mine families happen to occupies a place of esteem ins de reverend’s eye. So we are privdleges to certains _hoooo_ informations.”  
  
Abigail stepped forward. “Anything helps.”  
  
The man tipped his head to the side.  
  
“De sons of de reverends, he has, how you says, _ascended_ to another planes.”  
  
Skwisgaar gripped him by the throat. “Spaks Ainglash, motherfuckers.”  
  
“Aiyee!” said the man. “I’s trying to be subtles. De reverends has ears everywheres. What I means ams. Toki ams _closer to de heavens_ dan you might t’inks.”  
  
He tipped his head, again, to the left, his pupils tracing a diagonal line upward. Skwisgaar followed their track. They carved a path to the chapel, an unassuming structure of puritanical design. It was the largest building in the village, walls painted yellow, roof slanted like a lowercase _n_. At its center was a spire, a cross at its peak, its base surrounded by a low railing. The type of structure that might contain a bell of some soft, yet this held only windows. A lightbulb went off in Skwisgaar.  
  
He released the man and bolted to the chapel.  
  
The fence abutted the back of the chapel, but a tree of significant age, branches hearty and downturned, grew just beside it. Skwisgaar hitched the hood of his jacket over his face, then leaped for the lowest branch. He latched to it with no issue, and reached for the next.  
  
“What are you,” Abigail spit, “ _How_ are you--?!”  
  
“Nathan has our keys a lot.’  
  
“ _That in no way is an answer._ ”  
  
Her faint protests faded as he made his ascent. He moved from one branch, another, another, then _another_ , with the ease of a nimble child escaping a pack of bullies. As he made his way up it felt less like he was climbing, and more that he was being lifted upward by an endless swarm of bodiless black arms. He clambered from limb to limb, the smattering of stubborn leaves offering coverage, until he reached the limb unfurling over the chapel roof. He hefted himself onto it, then followed it out until it narrowed too much to support his weight.   
  
The roof’s slope was slight, manageable, and in three quick steps he’d scaled to the platform, crouching to avoid any watchful eyes. He caught his breath. The spire had four windows, one for each side, all sealed with massive padlocks from the outside, the glass opaque as sea glass. Skwisgaar pressed his face to the mottled surface and shielded his eyes with his hands. Within, he saw an emaciated figure, shirtless, greasy, hair hanging over his face. Skwisgaar knocked. The figure looked up. Skwisgaar’s heart almost choked him.  
  
In his excitement Toki forgot he was constrained, jerking back against the ropes that bound him to the wall. He mouthed, _I’m sorry_. A sound came from downstairs, and Toki, panicked motioned for Skwisgaar to leave. Pulling the marker from his pocket, he bit off the cap and scribed on his palm a simple message. Before he left, he slapped his hand to the glass.  
  
**_I’m coming back._**


	14. Chapter 14

Toki had always known the darkness. The darkness was his birthright.  
  
He saw the darkness in his father, his cruelty shrouded in the sheepskin of piety. He saw in his mother, wielding her inscrutable distance as a cudgel. He saw it in the blank indifference of his fellow villagers. And he saw it in himself--in the rage and despair as inescapable as his shadow. But what made him different from the others, what made him _special_ , was that even in the deepest depths of his darkness was a faint, flickering pinprick of light. A light he fostered and protected; a light that would illuminate an alternate path.  
  
A light he feared had been permanently snuffed out.  
  
Days and nights bled together. Consciousness came in waves. Time lost all meaning. Violence arrived frequently; food less so. He kept his mind empty, otherwise the bad feelings pushed in. How could he have ever believed he deserved a normal life? A job? An apartment? Friends? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He spent so long fighting the darkness, but to fight was to delay the inevitable. He was born in the darkness. He would die in the darkness. And only his fleas would mourn him.  
  
Winter winds rattled his prison’s windows in their panes. Beyond the glass, a murky sky the color of weak tea. Toki stared out the window opposite him, the one where he’d hallucinated Skwisgaar’s worried, determined face. A grim trick conjured by a failing mind. Still, he begged for one last trick, one last vision, one last nice thing before he went. He wished he’d  told Skwisgaar he was sorry he’d missed the festival. He’d been looking forward to it so much.  
  
At last, his mind acquiesced. Vision bleary from exhaustion, he could barely make out the amorphous shape floating outside the window, black and featureless as a silhouette. It was still for a moment, then lifted a single, slender talon--no doubt meant to slide clean across Toki’s throat. This was the death he deserved. Silent. Anonymous. Solitary. The darkness had come to collect. Toki’s eyes closed.  
  
And snapped back open at the sound of a **_SMASH_**.  
  
A spray of shattered glass glimmered along the rotting wood floor. An icy breeze scythed across his bare chest. The figure, now corporeal, clambered through the new opening with surprising athleticism, cursing quietly as its shoulder nicked a shard still embedded in the frame. Two long strides and it was at Toki’s feet. In one hand was a hammer, in the other a pair of garden shears. By now, Toki should have known not to put any stock in hope. But even after a lifetime of adversity, hope remained in ample supply.  
  
Because it wasn’t Death. It was Skwisgaar.  
  
The shears sliced through Toki’s restraints with two quick snips. Toki rubbed at the tender ringlet of rawness encircling his wrists, wincing at the burn. One hand against the wall to steady him, he moved to stand, legs quivering unsure beneath the weight. Something tough collided with his chest and threw him off balance. He dropped to one knee, head swimming. Before him was a backpack, stuffed with a clump of hastily folded, wildly mismatched black clothes.  
  
“Gets dressed,” Skwisgaar hissed. “We don’ts gots a lot of times.”  
  
It was only now Toki realized, aside from his tattered work pants, he was nearly nude. A pulse of shame flared in his chest and soon died, his body too drained to muster up much else. He slipped a tank top, then a thermal, then a hoodie over his head. They were soft, well-worn. They smelled like Skwisgaar.  
  
“What ams you doing heres?” he asked. He could not remember if he was wearing underwear. He slid a pair of pilly sweats over his work pants.  
  
“Whats it _look_ likes I’s doesing?” He stooped to pick up the hammer. “I’s busting you outs. Idiots.”   
  
He jammed his feet into a pair of too-small Sambas and picked up the shoelaces. They fell from his loose grip. He clenched his hands into fists, squeezed, released, stretched his fingers to their full length.   
  
“How you gonna does dat?”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed.  
  
“I’s already doesing it, dudes! **_Hueeeeegggggh_**.” Tucking the hammer in his armpit he dropped to a crouch, pulled the laces taut, and secured them in a few elegant loops. “Everybody ams waitings, we just gots to goes down de roofs, climbs down de trees, runs away like little animals into de nights. Easy peasy lemons squeezey.”  
  
Toki’s skull thunked into the wall. “Climbs?”  
  
“Ja, it amn’ts hard,” Skwisgaar yanked him to his feet. “You just gots to goes from one t’ings to another t’ings, and den another t’ings, and den another _another_ t’ings, ands you keeps doesing dat until you ons de grounds. Oh, ands don’ts forgets to nots fall off de t’ings, cause dat can kills you, probablys, I wouldn’t knows, I’s never fallen…”  
  
Skwisgaar released him and at once Toki’s vision cut out, and in the next moment Skwisgaar was supporting his entire weight, one arm snaked around his back, one hand cradling the side of his face. His palm was warm against his cheek. It had been so long since he’d felt warm.  
  
“...uuuuuuuuuck mes, dudes, dere’s no _ways_ you cans makes dat climbs. Why I t’inks dat woulds work? Fuck. What’s we gonna do’s?”  
  
“You came backs,” Toki murmured.  
  
The nervous sharpness in Skwisgaar’s voice dulled.  
  
“Of _course_ I dids.” He tipped Toki’s head forward to meet his gaze.  
  
“Toki sorry he missed de balloons festivals.”  
  
“How does we gets outs of heres?”  
  
“I was so excited to spends my days off wif yous.”  
  
“ **Toki focus.** ”  
  
A sharp pinch at the bends of his elbows snapped him to alertness. He shook his head.  
  
“De only ways we gets outs of here ams through de front doors.”  
  
“Okays.” Still shouldering Toki’s body, he guided him to his feet. “So we goes out de front doors.”  
  
“We can’ts do dats.”  
  
“We’s abouts to. Gets a moves on, pals.”  
  
“My father. He _see_ everyt’ing. He _know_ everyt’ing. He finds us, den it _game overs_ \--”  
  
“ ** _Toki_**."  
  
He gulped a breath as though he’d just emerged from a shipwreck.   
  
“I don’ts care if I has to stuffs you ins dat backpack and carries you outs like yous a loud means orange boirds and I’s a big dumbs bear what ams wearing blue shorts for some raisin.”  
  
Toki blinked. “Whats?”  
  
“ _Eeeeehhhhhhh_ it one of Nathan’s games, I only seen him play it whens we’re stoned, whatevers, **_de point ams._** ”  
  
Skwisgaar’s hands curved around his neck. Fibers of his hair poking out of his braid lit up white in the moonlight. His eyes were steely but soft.  
  
“ _I’m nots leaving heres wifouts you_. Understands?”  
  
Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was overconfidence. Maybe it was stupidity. But Skwisgaar had shown up for him--really, _physically_ shown up for him--in a way no one ever had before. And his body, which moments ago had been on the verge of collapse, now vibrated with newfound, boundless energy.  
  
“Okey.”  
  
“Okays?”  
  
“Okey!” Toki stepped back, standing tall and unassisted. He glanced around the room. “Dis whole place is super olds. Ifs we push ons de doors a certain ways we can probably wiggle de locks outs of its hole--”  
  
**_FWANG.  
  
_****_CLUNK.  
  
_****_RIRR-RIRR-RIRR.  
  
_****_CREEEEEEEEAAAAAAK.  
  
_**The door slunk open dejectedly, a splintering gap in the place where the knob once had been. The knob, smashed clean off and dented beyond recognition, came to a shaky stop against the opposite wall. Skwisgaar twirled the hammer in his hand.  
  
“I alreadys broke _ones_ t’ing,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s _goes_.”  
  
The tower room opened to a narrow spiral staircase, stone steps slick with condensation. Skwisgaar moved out front, trotting down the steps sideways, while Toki trailed with arms outstretched into an elongated _V_ , fingertips grazing the cool walls. The descent felt endless, every turn bringing nothing but more stairs.  
  
“Holy shits,” Skwisgaar huffed, “how longs does dis stairs-case goes?”  
  
Toki didn’t know. He was only supposed to make this trip once.  
  
At last they reached the base, where another heavy wooden door awaited them. Skwisgaar hefted his hammer up, but Toki snatched his wrist midair, intercepting his strike.  
  
“We gots to be quiets,” he whispered. “Sometimes my dads sends peoples to patrols de church grounds at nights.”  
  
“Why he does dat?”  
  
“Somet’ings somet’ings _bewares de demons in black suits_ somet’ings somet’ings. I don’ts knows. Just shush.”  
  
Backside pressed to the wall, he shuffled around Skwisgaar, laid both hands on the knob, and lifted with a grunt. A mechanism within the frame unlatched. They scurried out.   
  
The door opened onto a platform that skirted the whole of church’s interior in the space where the walls ended and the roof began. Long ago, when the village boasted larger numbers, the space was reserved for families of lesser esteem, people who needed to earn their place at the level of the reverend. Empty of its congregation underscored how sparse the church was. Drab. Dull. The lofty beams. The hanging metal lanterns swathed in cobwebs. Even his father’s pulpit, which once seemed so monstrous and looming, looked small. It was almost silly how afraid it once made him.  
  
The staircase to the main floor dumped into the church’s foyer, beside the front entrance. The ancient wooden steps groaned beneath their weight. While Toki toed gingerly at each one to lessen the sound, Skwisgaar bounded down three at a time, but skidded to a halt at the bottom. Outside, muffled but growing louder, were voices.  
  
Skwisgaar flailed his arms in a way that said _what do we do now_? As the footfalls drew closer, Toki leapt off the stairs, grabbed Skwisgaar’s hand and dragged him backwards into the last pew, shoving him forcefully to the ground.  
  
“Uh, _ows_.”  
  
“ **Shh!** ” Toki pushed him down further and crouched beside him just as the front entrance creaked open. “--don’ts gets why we always de ones gots to do nights patrols.”  
  
“Cause de reverends asks us to does it, so we gots to does it.”  
  
“Ja, buts why’s he only asks _us_ to does it?”  
  
“Beingks asked by de reverends to does somet’ings ams a great honor.”  
  
“You t’inks it an honor to gets outs of bed ins de middle of de nights and walks around de spookiest parts of de village?”  
  
“If de reverend says it ams, den it ams.”  
  
“If de reverend tolds you to jumps off de roofs, woulds you does it?”  
  
“If de reverend’s asking he must has a good reason--”  
  
The watchmen moved in sync, their shadows drifting over the undetected pair. Toki’s breath rattled in his throat, his blood pounding in his ears. Skwisgaar’s arm laid beside his. He felt the heat radiating in all the spaces where they were not touching. Skwisgaar’s lips skimmed the shell of Toki’s ear. He exhaled.  
  
“ _De foirst chance we gets_ ,” he muttered, “ _we makes a runs for its_.”  
  
The watchmen had done a complete loop through the church and were making their way back to the entrance.  
  
“Another nights, another pointless patrols. Some t’ings never change.” One complained. “Let’s gets outs of heres so I’s not a completes mess at service tomorrows--”  
  
One set of footsteps continued. One set stopped.  
  
“You comings or whats?”  
  
Toki snuck a peek over the top of the pew. One of the watchmen was hunched over the staircase’s railing.  
  
“Does dis looks like blood to yous?”  
  
Panic seized Toki by the neck. He hunched back down and saw, for the first time, the tear in Skwisgaar’s shirt where the piece of glass made contact, the bright red slash in his pale skin, the dark wet ring of the fabric surrounding it.  
  
“Uh. Maybes. Looks pretty olds. We’ll cans sees it betters in de mornings, let’s goes--”  
  
“No, looks, it still warms.”  
  
“Gross.”  
  
“I t’inks we shoulds talks to de reverend abouts dis.”  
  
“You’ll finds any excuse to talks to dat guys, won’ts you?”  
  
Toki’s vision went black at the edges. No no no no he _couldn’t_ have come this far just to sputter at the finish line. Desperation welled in his throat. Skwisgaar bit his lip. Glanced down at his hand. Tightened his grip on the handle of his hammer. Whipped his arm back, then launched it upwards, where it arced over the rafters and sailed with a raucous **_CRASH!!!!_** through one of the second floor windows.  
  
“Whats was dat!”  
  
“Uhhhhhhh…”  
  
The stairs thundered with the watchman’s ascent. “Dere’s somet’ings upstairs, come ons, we gots to checks it out!”  
  
“ _Moves!_ ” Skwisgaar nabbed the back of Toki’s hoodie like a mama cat grabbing her kitten by the scruff and they scrambled to their feet, a short sprint all that was left between them and freedom. They reached the door, seized the handle--  
  
And froze.  
  
Only one of the watchmen had followed the noise upstairs. The other, oily black hair haloed in a glow of grease, had not left the foyer. He locked eyes with Toki.  
  
No one moved.  
  
“Ronk!” The disembodied voice of the other watchman echoed. “What’s goingks ons?”  
  
The watchman’s eyes went to Skwisgaar. The material of Toki’s shirt tightened in Skwisgaar’s fist. Eyes unwavering, the watchman took a step backwards.  
  
“I thoughts I saws somet’ings,” he replied, taking another step back. “I was wrongs. Dere’s not’ings heres.”  
  
Relief washed over Toki, and he mouthed a silent _thank you_. Skwisgaar nodded, and yanked the door open.  
  
The night air was a shock to Toki’s lungs, doubly so because they were running, they were running so fast, out of the church and into the cemetery, the two of them hopping over tombs and markers and graves placed to memorialize people whose bones and brains and blood had disintegrated into the earth, people whose names were barely legible in the marble meant to memorialize them, through the fence and into the woods and onto the road and Toki would run forever if Skwisgaar asked him to, the ground was hard and the sky was clear and those people were dead but Toki was alive, alive, _alive_.  
  
Exhaustion at last caught him. His knees hitched, but before they could fully buckle Skwisgaar swept him into his arms and into a bruising embrace, so tight Toki could feel Skwisgaar’s chaotic heartbeat battering against his chest.  
  
“It’s okay,” Skwisgaar mumbled, his face in Toki’s neck, stroking his hair with the flat of his palm. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”  
  
Toki let himself be held, be comforted, unsure who the message was meant for.  
  
**“Toki!”  
  
**Abigail’s voice was like a song as she emerged from the dark of the woods, capturing Toki in a hug the moment Skwisgaar let go. Skwisgaar, quick but not quick enough for Toki not to notice, dragged his sleeve across his eyes.  
  
“Are you alright? I was so worried, I’m so sorry--”  
  
“It’s okay!” Toki beamed. “It wasn’t, but now it ams!”  
  
Abigail gave one more squeeze, then pulled his arm across her shoulders.  
  
“Let’s get you out of here.”  
  
It wasn’t a far walk to Murderface’s van, parked slanted and perpendicular in the middle of the road.  
  
“Good to seeya naht dead, pal!” Pickles said as he opened the back door and assisted Toki inside.  
  
“All of yous came for Toki?”  
  
“Oh yeah, of _coursche_ we came,” Murderface said as he hopped into the driver’s seat. “You know what they schay. Schome people are born heroes. Othersch have heroicsch thrust upon them. I happen to be both.”  
  
“Calm down,” Abigail said as she slid into the front seat beside Charles. “All you did was drive the van.”  
  
“Drive the van _very heroically_.”  
  
Nathan clapped Toki on the shoulder as he took his seat. Skwisgaar sat across from him, knees drawn to his chin.    
  
“We didn’t really _do_ anything,” he said. “But if something happened where we _did_ have to do something, then we totally would have done it. Probably. You’re welcome.”  
  
As the van hummed to life and lurched out of its precarious parking position, police sirens wailed in the distance. Pickles blanched, tugging up the collar of his shirt to conceal the lower half of his face.  
  
“Nate I was wit’ ya on Septemba 24 between th’hours of 2 and 6 am, gaht it?”  
  
“I wouldn’t be concerned, Pickles,” Charles said. “They’re not here for you.”  
  
Through the windshield Toki saw a fleet of squad cars approach, then fly by. Toward the village.  
  
“I’ve had my suspicions about this, ah, _group’s_ financial dealings for some time,” Charles continued. “But since this area is _technically_ outside of my jurisdiction, there wasn’t much I could do. So I made a call to one of my associates in Washington and, ah, _gently_ suggested they dig around, see what they could find.” He adjusted his glasses. “It appears they found something.”  
  
Toki looked at Skwisgaar, who did not react. “I don’ts gets it.”  
  
Pickles cackled.  
  
“Dood! You gaht Toki’s weird cult family busted? By the  _feds?_ Fer what? _Tax evasion_? **_Fraud?_** Dood! That’s **hilarious**.”  
  
“I just made a call.”  
  
“Wow, Charles, you did it,” Nathan said with admiration. “You saved the day. You did it in the nerdiest, most boring way possible, but you did it nonetheless.”  
  
The ride back into town was bumpy and loud. But it was toward something he hungered for for so long, away from something he thought he may never escape. Ahead was prospect, opportunity. Ahead was friendship, safety. Ahead was hope. Ahead was a life.  
  
Across from him, Skwisgaar smiled. Toki knew it was impossible to expel all of the darkness. It would always be a part of him. But now, the light in him shined brighter than a thousand suns.  
  
He was free.


	15. Chapter 15

Pickles could find any excuse to party, but to his credit, _rescuing your friend from a crazy cult in the woods_ was a pretty good one.   
  
Partially-full pizza boxes formed a cardboard metropolis along the counters of Nathan and Skwisgaar’s kitchen. Their meager smattering of groceries had been shoved to the back of the fridge to make room for cases upon cases of cheap beer. Argumentative chatter floated over the sludge metal leaking from their hand-me-down speakers. Having broken the card table borrowed from his parents, Nathan removed his bedroom door from its hinges and laid it across two bar stools to serve as a Slap Cup table for him, Pickles, Murderface and Abigail. Charles sipped an expensive liquor and observed with cautious curiosity.   
  
“So, ah, the objective is to slap your opponent’s cup _away_ from the table?”  
  
“No, the objective is to make your opponents drink.” Nathan batted Murderface’s cup into the far hall (“Mother of SCHIT.”) and slid his own to Abigail. “The slapping is a bonus.”  
  
As Murderface fumbled beneath the couch to retrieve his squirrelly ping pong ball, a tittering Abigail pulled herself together enough to daintily plunk her own ball into her cup. She passed both to Pickles.  
  
“It’s naht that hard.”  
  
Pickles held aloft the cup and tipped it over to drop the ball into his open palm.  
  
“Ya take th’ _ball_ , ya take th’ _cup_ , ya bounce the ball _off_ the table _into_ the cup, if ya get _yer_ ball in _yer_ cup before th’person on yer right gets _their_ ball in _their_ cup, ya **slap** their cup away, they take a **new** cup from the middle, they drink the beer **_in_** that cup, THEN, they tryta get their ball in **_that_** cup."  
  
The ice clinked in Charles’s glass as he rotated his wrist. “The word _cup_ has lost all meaning to me.”  
  
“ ** _HOWEV’RRRRRR!_** ”  
  
With a deft bounce, Pickles sank hit shot with one attempt, then kicked in the open space beneath the door to dislodge the freshly drained cup of beer from Murderface’s hold before he’d even had a chance to place it down.  
  
“Schon of a **_bitch_** that waschn’t even a **_schlap, Pickles_**!”  
  
Nathan explained: “We have a house rule where if you get your ball in on the first try, you can slap the other player’s cup regardless of where it is on the table.”  
  
“That rule seems somewhat...targeted.”  
  
Nathan waited for Murderface to finish drinking, then punched the cup from his grip.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“GodDAMNIT schtop _ganging up on me!_ ”  
  
“Stahp bein’ so easy to gang up ahn!”  
  
The curls hanging loose from Abigail’s drooping bun quivered as she descended into wheezing, open-mouthed laughter.  
  
“You _have_ a _coffee table_!” She gestured at the forsaken wooden rectangle, crammed into the corner to make room for Nathan’s innovation. “ _Why_ didn’t we just _play_ on the _coffee table?!_ You are all! So! **_Stupid_**!”  
  
She flopped onto her back with a witchy cackle. Content to abandon the game, Pickles smirked and laid out beside her.  
  
“Ya coulda brought that up earlier.”  
  
She gasped quietly.  
  
“Oh no. You’re right. What if _I’m_ stupid?”  
  
“Nah, yer naht.”  
  
“No, I’m not.” She folded her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes with a self-satisfied hum. “I’m way smarter than any of you dumb-dumbs.”  
  
Mouth hidden by the rim of his glass, Charles cleared his throat. Tilting her head back, Abigail pushed herself up onto her elbows to scowl up at him, upside down.  
  
“I _said_ what I _said_.”  
  
Skwisgaar drifted at the margins of the party. The adrenaline knifing through his system all night had hollowed him clean out. He flicked at the pull tab on his empty can, watched the door to the balcony and the darkness beyond. If he let his mind wander, he could trick himself into thinking this was just like any other of the countless house parties he and Nathan had thrown over the years. But those parties had been about getting drunk and getting laid. This party was about how Toki almost died, but did not die.  
  
Not exactly the same vibe.  
  
When the group went on their post-rescue, hedonistic-party-prep-shopping-spree (bankrolled, somewhat reluctantly, by Charles), Toki had been ebullient. Weaving in and out of the grocery store aisles with arms weighted by family-sized bags of candy, Toki radiated unbridled joy--powerful enough to stuff down Skwisgaar’s own cottony melancholy. But soon after returning to the apartment, his mood took a steady but subtle downturn. His smile strained. His demeanor became less earnest, more performative, as though his happiness was for the benefit of everyone but himself. If the guys had picked up on the change, they didn’t call attention to it. When Toki crept out to the balcony some 20 minutes ago, Skwisgaar was the only one who moved to follow him.  
  
And he would have followed him, too, had Abigail not stepped in his path, touched him lightly on the arm, and whispered, “this is a big night for him. Give him the space he needs.”  
  
Well, okay, but he could always _give_ him space while also, coincidentally, occupying the space _next to_ his space. Two different spaces. It’s called **science**.  
  
Depositing his can at the foot of the overflowing recycling bin, Skwisgaar fetched two bottles from the fridge and popped off their caps with the bottle opener Nathan’s dad had installed on the adjoining wall. Plastic cups clattered into one another as he shuffled through the living room. His presence went unnoticed: Nathan and Pickles were pressuring Murderface to shotgun a beer, while Charles mixed Abigail another drink. He shifted both bottles to one hand, index and middle finger coiling around the necks. An arctic blast pushed through the balcony door’s poorly-sealed windows. To his left, heaped atop the abandoned coffee table, a thick, cream-colored knit blanket, a gift from one of Skwisgaar’s former paramours who was no longer of this earth. He draped it across his shoulders and stepped outside.  
  
Winter’s arrival had been swift and blunt. Skwisgaar felt the chill deep in his bone marrow. But Toki appeared unbothered. He sat with legs drawn up to his chest, arms squeezing his shins, face craned to the sky. The ends of his hair, still wet from an earlier shower, were dusted with frost. The sweats he wore were enormous, his body swallowed by a pilly black hump. Below, the lights of the parking lot had clicked off for the night. In the dark Toki’s expression was indecipherable, his face a white smear.  
  
Skwisgaar nodded to the apartment’s interior.  
  
“Dere ams a party being thrown in yous honor.” Disingenuous enthusiasm muddied his tone. “Mights be nice of yous to makes an appearance.”  
  
“I just needsed some airs.”  
  
“Oh, you don’ts gots to explains youself to me, pals. Whens I arounds bright lights and loud noises and annoyings peoples too much, it start to feel likes, my brain ams trying to push outs through my eyeballs?” ” He set the beer down on the wood at Toki’s feet. It did not break his concentration. “Minds, uh, if I joined yous?”  
  
Toki shrugged. “It’s your house.”  
  
As he sat, the right side of Skwisgaar’s blanket tumbled invitingly open, laying in the gap between his and Toki’s bodies. He mirrored Toki’s pose. Overhead, the sky was a murky mush. Navy blue clouds on the edge of black, swollen with potential snow. They evoked a sadness in the pit of Skwisgaar’s chest he could not place. Some long ago childhood disappointment, the specifics lost but the hurt everlasting.  
  
"I thought dere’d bes more stars,” Toki said after a time.  
  
Skwisgaar looked at him. But Toki’s gaze remained fixed.  
  
“Whens I finally left. I thought dere’d be more stars,” he continued. “I hads dis...I guess you coulds calls it a _fantasy_. Whens I was alones. And t’ings was really bads.”  
  
Skwisgaar was grateful Toki did not elaborate on what _really bad_ meant.  
  
“I woulds stands up in de middles of my father’s sermons. Ands I woulds give dis bigs speech abouts how _he_ was terrible ands my _mothers_ was terrible ands _everyones_ was terrible, ands I was _leaving_ ands _never coming back_. And dens I woulds burst outs of de chapel ands I woulds walk all de ways to my brands new apartments dat I just boughts.”  
  
His arms outstretched to their full length as they reached to the sky above.  
  
“Ands my whole walks homes would be lit ups by a millions-billions stars, so brights dat it looked likes it was day times.”  
  
His fingers curled back into his palms. His arms fell slowly to his sides.  
  
“Buts it didn’ts work outs dat ways.”  
  
Within the apartment, an uproarious cheer exploded and then died. Skwisgaar took a drink.  
  
“I don’ts feels how I thoughts I woulds feels, when I gots outs,” Toki said. “I thought I’d feels...happier, dan dis.”  
  
“You’re nots happys?” Skwisgaar asked, and now Toki turned to him, brimming with sincerity.  
  
“Noes, I ams, I’m _happys_ , I’m _so_ happys, I’m happiers dan I ever thoughts I coulds be.” He blinked. “Buts I’m also…”  
  
“Sads?” Skwisgaar offered. “Ats de same times?”  
  
“Yeahs! Exactlys!” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “How you knows dat?”  
  
Skwisgaar knew that, because Skwisgaar had _felt_ that. The final, severing fight between him and his mother had been the fulfillment _his_ long-held fantasy. And yes, in the moment, it felt _amazing_. But when the cathartic rush of righteousness waned, as he clutched all his belongings in the last seat of a bus rumbling to points unknown, he didn’t feel amazing. He felt guilty. And scared. And alone.  
  
“De lifes I haves now,” he said, careful, “aways from my moms, ams so much better dan whats I hads wif hers. Buts de feelings, likes somet’ings died? Dat doesn’t goes aways.”  
  
He swallowed.  
  
“De mournings,” he said. “Of whats you didn’ts have. Dat’s normals.”  
  
“It nots just dats,” Toki said with a shake of his head.  
  
Moonlight broke through the clouds, washing them both in pale light, and Skwisgaar could see Toki’s eyes glistening with tears.  
  
“I was supposeds to do’s it alls on my owns.” His voice cracked. “I _wanted_ to do’s it alls on my owns.”   
  
The space between them felt wide as a chasm. Skwisgaar ached to move into it, but stopped himself. He took another swig of his drink.  
  
“Ja, wells, doingks t’ings by youself ams all well and good, but you knows.” He unrolled his legs out from under him, his feet clunking into the balcony’s barrier. “T’inks abouts it likes _dis_. I climbs up de fronts of my apartments to get insides when I locked outs, ja? But if somebody gives to mes a ladder, ands I _use_ dat ladder, I’s still getting insides my apartments. De climbs ams differents, but I gots where I needed to goes.”  
  
Toki sniffed. “You also can gets another set of keys.”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
Toki giggled. Then quieted.  
  
“I’m so lucky to has yous.”  
  
Skwisgaar scratched at the label of his beer bottle.  
  
“And Abigail, and de guys looking outs for me. Buts I.” Toki bit his lip. “I feels likes a failure.”  
  
“No, whats? Toki, you amn’ts--”  
  
“How I supposed to makes a life for myself if I always has to relys on other peoples to bails me outs?”  
  
Skwisgaar opened his mouth, closed it again. Toki pulled the too-long sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand and dragged it across his face. Above, an airplane sliced a steadfast course through the dark puff of clouds.  
  
Skwisgaar coughed.  
  
“Dis, uh.” The label began to deteriorate beneath his nails. “Dis may bes a surprise to yous, but I’s! Am nots! De best ats taking helps from other peoples!”  
  
The label’s paper corner lifted from the glass and Skwisgaar peeled it off clean.  
  
“My moms, she control every parts of my lifes, for better or woirse. Ands when I moves out, I didn’ts knows how to do _shits_. I didn’ts knows how to finds an apartment. I didn’ts knows how to renews mine driver’s lice-kense. I didn’ts knows how to _makes a pot of coffee._ ”  
  
“No ways.”  
  
“Yes ways! Wifouts Pickle and Nathan and Moidaface and Nathan’s mom--” He scrunched his nose. “-- _mostly Nathan’s mom_ , I wouldn’ts be’s where I ams nows.”  
  
A beat. The label’s gummy glue balled at his fingertips.  
  
“It amn’ts easy for mes to admits I…”   
  
“Don’ts know everyt’ings?” Toki teased.  
  
“...needs other peoples,” Skwisgaar murmured.   
  
Skwisgaar’s exhale plumed full and icy before him. He chanced a glance. Toki smiled, the first genuine one in hours, and a shockwave traveled through Skwisgaar’s entire circulatory system. He cleared his throat and took another long pull from his beer.  
  
“And rights nows I needs you nots to dies of hyehpa-them-dreas.”  
  
Grin widening, Toki at last picked up the free end of the blanket and wrapped it around himself, scooching closer to cocoon them together. Their knees grazed. Skwisgaar huffed a hot breath into his cupped palms, rubbed them together, then enclosed them around Toki’s. Toki’s hands were bony, and freezing, and fit so nicely in his own.  
  
“You haves really beautiful hands,” Toki said.  
  
Skwisgaar chuckled. “You’ve saids dat befores.”  
  
“Doesn’t makes it less trues.”  
  
Their eyes met, and for the first time it occurred to Skwisgaar how _intimate_ this was. He’d only known intimacy in its most literal sense. He’d had no use, no desire for intimacy of any other kind. The messy vulnerability. The touch without the expectation of reciprocity. Toki’s smile made his heart shudder, and Skwisgaar had no idea how he’d survived this long without it.  
  
The window behind them rattled and they both jumped.  
  
“HeeeeeeEEEEEYYYYYYY.”  
  
Pickles’s pasty face was plastered to the glass, tiny fists drumming urgently on the pane.  
  
“ _Heeeeyyyyyyyyy! Yew guyyyssssss!_ Lemme out there! Oh wait theres’a door.” He opened it. “Hey, hey hey, Nate brought in the TV from his room, an’ AbFab hooked up two N64s, so we gonna haffa Mario Kart Kario Mart Tournament…” he squinted, “...O...Tart...Whutever, get yer ass in here.”  
  
Toki frowned. “I don’t t’inks _any_ of us shoulds be driving right nows.”  
  
“Mario Kart ams a bideo games,” Skwisgaar said. “Kario Marts ams when you plays it while drinkings.”  
  
“Lez _go_ less _yartin’_ more _kartin’_ ,” he brayed, then vanished inside.  
  
Toki stood and stretched, dragging the blanket up with him. He looked down at Skwisgaar and tilted his head.  
  
“You comings?”  
  
“Ja,” he answered, “in a secs.”  
  
Toki lingered, just for a moment. Then he, too, returned to the warm glow of the apartment.  
  
White flecks fluttered passed Skwisgaar’s line of sight, wind picking up with a bite. He took full-body, deep breaths, filled his lungs to capacity with the sharp, frigid air, hoping it would calm the raging fire blazing in his chest.

  
\---

Toki didn’t have much experience in terms of parties, but from his perspective, this had been a pretty good one.  
  
Game cartridges haloed around a TV screen, glowing with the looping image of a portly, flexing, mustachioed man who bragged of being, “a-de best!” Beer cans, shot glasses, and one billion red solo cups littered each surface. A pizza box had been torn in half for reasons no one could recall. Everything was wet? It was absolute chaos, and it was everything Toki ever wanted. Hours ago, he did not think he would survive the night. And yet here he was. What a wonderful turn of events.  
  
Charles slumped against Nathan on the couch, his glasses missing, his once crisp white shirt crumbled and splotched with patches of brown. Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he held the screen flush against face, his eyes narrowed to slits.  
  
“I gotta hand it to you,” Nathan rapped his knuckles on Charles’s chest, “I did _not_ think you could get this rowdy. You were a _monster_ on the pong table.”  
  
Charles, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, smiled weakly. “One does not graduate from Harvard Business School without acquiring a, ah, _certain skillset_ .”   
  
“Shit, if I could have learned to shoot like _that_ maybe I would have gone to college.”  
  
Slapping his thighs, Charles hefted himself to his feet, wobbled, then stumbled backwards. Nathan grabbed him by his belt, and he steadied.  
  
“I should be taking my leave. I have a ribbon cutting in--” he squinted at his phone, grimaced “-- _four hours_ , and I’ll need to show _some_ sense of decorum.”  
  
“What’sch that, _ribbon cutting_ , schome kinda industry term?” Murderface shouted over the stream of piss hitting porcelain with robustl force. “Schome kinda _lamp_ industry term? Causche you’re in the _lamp_ businessh? Wanna schow off how you own your own businessh?” A flush. “I own my own businessh, too, but you don’t schee _me_ bragging about it, you _dick_ .”  
  
Charles slung his suit jacket over his shoulder.  
  
“My driver’s downstairs. Would anyone like a ride home? Murderface?”  
  
Murderface scoffed as he entered, zipping his fly. “Charlesch, asch a _fellow businessh owner_ , you schould know _I would_ **_never_ ** abandon my businessh in an _unsecure location_ .”  
  
“Your business meaning your van?”  
  
“Of _coursche_ I mean my van what elsche would I be talking about?!”  
  
“Hm. Noted. Pickles?”  
  
“Nah, man.” Pickles, face down in the carpet, flashed a thumbs up. “I’m jest gunna die here, thanks.”  
  
Skwisgaar, solitarily munching from a bag of jalapeno kettle-cooked chips on the floor beside him, toed his hip.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Die in a way that’ll convince our landlord to knock 300 dollars off our rent,” Nathan said.  
  
“I’ll die inna way that’ll getcha _500_ !”  
  
“You’re a good friend.”  
  
Charles craned his neck toward the kitchen.  
  
“Abigail?”  
  
On rare occasions, if it had been a slow day at the shop, Abigail would indulge in a glass of wine from a bottle she stored in one of the backroom’s coolers. Sometimes two. Toki had seen Abigail buzzed. He’d seen Abigail tipsy. But he’d never seen her like _this_ .  
  
“Yesssssss.” She emerged with a swagger, her blouse tied into a crop top, Charles’s tie knotted around her forehead. “Take me _HOME_ , nerd-alert.”  
  
Pickles propped himself up on one elbow. “Dood, ya betta naht text me all day tomorrow blamin’ me fer yer hangover.”  
  
“I’m not going to _be_ hungover,” she crowed, “I’m gonna live FOREVER.”  
  
“Toki?” Charles pivoted to him. “What are your plans?”  
  
Skwisgaar, bemusedly poking Pickles in the butt, snapped to attention.  
  
“What you means, plans?” Toki asked.  
  
“In terms of sleeping arrangements. Will you be accompanying Abigail, or would you prefer to stay here?”  
  
Oh. Huh. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.  
  
“I…”  
  
He locked eyes, briefly, with Skwisgaar, before he turned his attention to the inside of his chip bag.  
  
“Bro, come on, you’re already here,” Nathan said. “We have the space. Just stay.”  
  
“Yeah, man, we’re hanging out, juscht schtay!”  
  
“Yeeah, stay here, dood, we’re gonna keep raaaaagin’.” Pickles agreed, then mashed his face into the rug.  
  
Toki’s heart swelled against his ribs. What a difference it was, to be wanted.  
  
“Okeys,” Toki demurred, “I stays.”  
  
In his periphery, Toki was certain he saw Skwisgaar’s mouth curl into a small smile.  
  
“Tokiiiiiii.” Abigail waggled her fingers at him. “Come _here_ , my little friend.”  
  
She didn’t need to ask twice. He scrambled to his feet, leapt over Pickles’s corpse and enveloped her in a spinning embrace. When he set her back on Earth, her knees buckled.  
  
“I had _soooooo_ much fun tonight,” she slurred, sandwiching Toki’s face in her hands.  
  
“Ja, I cans see dat.”  
  
“Did you have fun? You deserve to have _all_ the fun.”  
  
Toki nodded.  
  
“Good.”  
  
She beamed, but there was something watery behind it. Before Toki could figure out what it was she pulled him back into a tight hug.  
  
“I’m so happy you’re okay,” she muttered into his neck. “I love you so much.”  
  
Emotion wedged in his throat. “I loves you toos.”  
  
“Also,” she leaned to Toki’s ear, shunted his hair aside, and said in what she must have believed to be a whisper, “ **_you should make out with Skwisgaar_ ** .”  
  
Every inch of his skin screamed from the heat. Nathan and Pickles snickered. Murderface hip-checked the side of Skwisgaar’s face. Skwisgaar missed his wide-open mouth and crushed a chip into his chin.  
  
“Okaaaaayyyyyyys, drunky, you’re _crazy_ .” He disentangled and passed her off to Charles. “Times for yous to leaves, **_now_ ** .”  
  
“Thank you for the eventful evening, gentlemen,” Charles said. He raised his hand from the doorknob as though he were going to wave, but instead, for some reason, turned it into a salute. “Shake it...like a polaroid...picture.”  
  
The silence was deafening.  
  
“Uh,” Murderface said at last, “ **_what?_ ** ”  
  
Flattening his mouth to a thin white line, Charles ducked his head and muttered, “I...Goodbye.”  
  
“Remeltindtdrinc OUT,” she cried, flipping both middle fingers. The door slammed shut, and they were gone.  
  
And Toki was spending the night at Skwisgaar’s apartment.  
  
And it was not until _this moment_ that he understood what that meant.  
  
“Alright!” Murderface landed in the cushions beside Nathan with a FWUMP. “Toki, great to have you here, buddy, but let’sch get one thing clear. _I’m_ schleeping on the couch.”  
  
“Murderface, no...”  
  
“ _I’m_ schleeping on the couch! I _descheve_ it!”  
  
Pickles tipped his head up, rug fibers clinging to his goatee. “Whut exactly didja do t’deserve it?”  
  
“Becausche the _lascht_ time I schtayed over, _these_ knucklefucksch made me schleep in the _bathtub_ !”  
  
“Skwisgaar and I explicitly asked you _not_ to do that.” Nathan said with a scowl. “ **Many** times.”  
  
“I mades up de couch all nice for yous,” Skwisgaar yelped, “and you tooks all de the blankets and pillows off and slept in the tub anyways!!!”  
  
Murderface thumbed at his noise. “Well, it’sch your word againscht mine.”  
  
“It’s okay, pals, Toki can sleep anywheres!” He felt his face twist into its unnatural, pleasant-looking, need-to-accommodate-at-all-costs contortion. “I’ll takes de bathtub!”  
  
“ **No one** is taking the bathtub. We’ll figure something out.” Nathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I have an old air mattress in the back of my closet.” He paused. “Wait. No. I broke it last year when I duct taped a hose to the air hookup.”  
  
“Why’didja do _that_ ?”  
  
“I wanted a water bed.”  
  
“ _My bed ams pretty bigs_ .”  
  
The sound was low, thin as a distant radio transmission, but everyone heard it. Four pairs of eyes trained on Skwisgaar, who seemed just as shocked as anyone the suggestion had come from him.  
  
“We coulds always.” The chip bag wrenched in his tight-fisted hands. “ _Shares it_ .”

 ** _Oh.  
  
_**“Ohs."  
  
“I means, if you’re comfortables--”  
  
“I means, if you don’ts minds--”  
  
“Minds? Why woulds I minds? I offered its, didn’ts I’s?”  
  
“I just don’ts wants to be any troubles.”  
  
“You _nots_ troubles, Toki. You…”  
  
He scanned the room.  
  
“I, uh.” The bag wafted to the ground as he made a swift exit. “Gives to me a minute to change de sheets, ja?”  
  
“Yeah yer gunna wanna wait til he’s done,” Pickles said with a smirk. “Gahd only knows what those sheets have absorbed.”  
  
“Gross. But actually.” Nathan hooked his chin on his fists. “Skwisgaar hasn’t brought anyone home in weeks.”  
  
Uhhh.  
  
“Is that so!” Pickles elbowed his way into a raised position and tapped pensively at his temple. “What an uncharacteristic shift in behavior! Whut coulda prompted _that_?”  
  
Uhhhhhhh.  
  
“Jeschush Chrischt _enough already_. I feel like _every time_ we get together all we talk about isch whether or not thosche moronsch are going to hook up. ** _Schpoiler alert! They’re going to hook up_**!”  
  
_UHHHHHHHHHHH.  
  
_“Why don’t we talk about schomething of _schubstance,_ like all the _very cool_ work _I’m_ doing to _schave the community center_ \--!”  
  
“ ** _UHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I GOTSTA USE DE WIZ PALACE_**.”  
  
The bathroom door banged shut as Toki pressed his backside against it. Taking a beat, he flipped on the faucet and held his face beneath the spigot, the cold stream shocking his nerves into complacency. Why was he so nervous? Was this not the _exact scenario_ he’d played out in his mind ever since the delivery at Mrs. Bloodnueferflovenvayvenhouven’s? What was it about other people speaking aloud his private desire that rattled him so?  
  
It wasn’t as if this was an unexpected turn of events. He’d used Skwisgaar’s soap. He’d worn Skwisgaar’s clothes. And now he was going to lie in Skwisgaar’s bed.  
  
With Skwisgaar.  
  
Stomach churning with anticipation, Toki pat his face dry.  
  
The living room’s conversation had shifted.  
  
“You really think you could beat me in a wrestling match?” said Nathan. “Do you have a death wish?”  
  
“You undereschtimate me,” said Murderface. “I’m lugging around big heavy packagesch all day, I’m baschically pumping iron 24/7.”  
  
“I would destroy you.”  
  
“I have an _incredibly_ powerful core.”  
  
“Where’s that core’a yers, right here?”  
  
“Let go of my schirt!”  
  
“ ** _PPPPBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLTTTTTTTT_**!”  
  
“ **PICKLESCH YOU KNOW I HATE RASCHPBERRIESH FUCK OFF**!”  
  
Skwisgaar’s bedroom door was open a crack, revealing a sliver of the dim but inviting interior. Toki flattened his hand to the wood. Took a break. Went inside.  
  
The decor of Skwisgaar’s room was minimal but purposeful, as if each item had been chosen only after a long, painstaking selection process. Framed concert photos and art prints. A record player atop a multi-tiered shelf, stacked with vinyl. A collapsed easel, laid on its side.  
  
Skwisgaar hunched over the opposite end in the bed, smoothing out a pillowcase. When the door creaked open, then clicked shut, he stood to his full height.  
  
“Heys.” He said.  
  
“Heys.” Toki answered.  
  
Skwisgaar flicked his wrists over his handiwork. “Takes it fors a spins.”  
  
Okay okay this was happening okay. Skimming the sheets with the ends of his fingers, Toki lowered himself backside-first and was swallowed by softness the moment he made contact. To call what he slept on at the village a bed was far too generous. He flopped onto his side like a contented bunny rabbit.  
  
Skwisgaar chuckled. “Guess you likes it.”  
  
“I _loves_ it,” Toki sighed, sliding his hands across the pillow’s cool underside. Skwisgaar fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, the skin beneath it popping with color.  
  
Toki saw an opening.  
  
“You knows what’s crazy?” He said, using his normal voice in a normal way. “We been working together all dis times, and I never seens any of your tattoos.”   
  
Skwisgaar cocked his head. “Dat can’ts be rights.”  
  
“It’s trues! I seen little bitty bits and pieces here and dere, but never de whole t’ings cause every times we pals around you gots clothes on!”  
  
That had _not_ been a good choice of words.  
  
“Ums,” Toki went on, shrinking under Skwisgaar’s lecherous grin, “how many you gots?"  
  
“Fours.”  
  
“Dat’s not very manys.”  
  
“I ams **_huuuuueeeeeghhhhhhhh_** very particulars. Whens you naturallys look likes dis--”  
  
He gestured to himself with a flourish.  
  
“--it cans be hards to mess wif perfections?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Toki rose to his knees.  
  
“Cans I see dem?”  
  
An emotion splashed across Skwisgaar’s face, his overconfident smile fracturing. But as quick as it came it was gone, and with one fluid motion Skwisgaar peeled off his shirt and tossed it to the other side of the room.  
  
“So dis ones.”  
  
He pointed to the black norse compass on the right side of his chest.  
  
“Was my first tattoos. Gots it after I moves outs of my moms. Very, you knows, c _harting my owns course, seizing my owns destiny_ symbolic bullshits. And dis ones.”  
  
He held out his left forearm. Purple storm clouds bisected by bright blue lightning swirled from his elbow to his wrist.  
  
“I gots after a really weird dreams I hads. I t’inks I was half a horse? I don’ts remember much abouts it except how cools de sky looked. And _dis_ ones.”  
  
He twisted his torso to show the small, delicate script woven across his ribs.  
  
“Ams just words from a song I likes, buts in Swedish. Buts! My _favorites_ ones ams.”  
  
He swept his hair over his shoulder and turned around. And Toki gasped.  
  
The tree’s sturdy trunk followed the divot of Skwisgaar’s spine, its branches braiding over and through one another as they fanned across his shoulder blades. Gnarls and knots poked playfully from the bark. A dragon slumbered in the winding roots at the small of his back.    
  
“It’s--”  
  
“ _Yggdrasil_ ,” Toki whispered with awe.   
  
Skwisgaar viewed him in profile. “You knows it?”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Toki’s hand drifted to the portrait, but he stopped himself. “Cans I...?  
  
“Uh.” He righted his neck. “Shores.”  
  
Skwisgaar’s muscles stiffened, then relaxed beneath Toki’s touch. His fingers glided across the wood with caution, as though he might catch a splinter if he was too reckless. Starting at the tree’s base, Toki moved tenderly up the trunk, over the curves and coils painted on the ivory canvas of Skwisgaar’s skin, until he settled in its lush canopy. The leaves expanded, welcoming, and Toki realized Skwisgaar had not been breathing.  
  
“You knows,” he said, “you cans stay heres. Wif mes. _Ands Nathan_ , until you finds a place of you owns. Real estates in dis towns ams a fucking bloodbaths, so you may be heres a whiles, if dat’s okays...”  
  
He trailed off as Toki tipped his forehead into his body, against the tree’s highest branches. Toki imagined building a life in the safety of its strong limbs.  
  
Words would never be enough, so he said the only ones that came to mind: “T’anks you.”  
  
“Of course.” Skwisgaar replied. And then, softly, as if it was a surprise even to himself: “I’d do anyt’ings for yous.”  
  
The landscape under him shifted, and Skwisgaar was facing him, flush against him, breath hot on his face, hands curved around Toki’s jaw just as they had when they kissed beneath the wedding arbor. A kiss that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did. It meant so much.  
  
He wanted it then. He wanted it _now_. Toki closed his eyes, leaned in, and--  
  
**_BANG!!!!!!!!  
  
_**The crash against the wall connecting the living room to Skwisgaar’s was so forceful it shook the bed, frames falling from their nails and clunking to the ground. Toki tumbled backwards into a pile of pillows as Skwisgaar, distressed and distracted, jolted out the door. Everything sounded muted, as though Toki’s eardrums had just blown out, but he heard scraps.  
  
**_“Why’d you throw me into the wall!”  
  
_****_“You said you wanted to wrestle! You told me not to hold back!”  
  
_****_“That doechsn’t mean throw me into the wall, you don’t juscht throw guysch into wallsch, who raisched you!”  
  
_****_“I’m sorry!”  
  
_****_“WHAT DE FUCKS?"  
  
_****_“Are wristsch schupposed to bend thisch way?”  
  
_****_“I don’t know! I don’t remember what wrists are supposed to look like!”  
  
_****_“WHAT DE FUCKS?!?”  
  
_****_“Yeah, yer naht gettin’ yer security deposit back."  
  
_**Toki laid there like a slug as his nerves went haywire. Humiliation ran hot through his veins. If Skwisgaar so much as _looked_ at him after _that_ he was certain he would turn to ash. But what was he supposed to do now? What was his play? How could he ever come back from that?  
  
Lacking any better ideas, he wiggled between the sheets, rolled away from the door, and pretended to be asleep.  
  
“Stupid fucking douchebag homeswrecking dildos can’ts be normals and nots stupid for _one minutes_ ,” Skwisgaar grumbled as he re-entered. “I--ohs.”  
  
The disappointment in Skwisgaar’s voice was a sledgehammer to Toki’s chest. Still, he did not move.  
  
The mattress sank with Skwisgaar’s weight. “I, uh. I guess it beens a pretty long day.” A shuffle, a tug of the sheets, and Skwisgaar was in the bed as well. Tears welled behind Toki’s eyelids. An opportunity squandered. A fantasy lost.  
  
“Goodnights, Toki.”  
  
They slept back to back.


	16. Chapter 16

Toki awoke at dawn.  
  
Sunlight illuminated the backs of his eyelids orange. Soft, warm fabric twisted around his legs and torso. He inhaled deeply; the air smelled of clean laundry and acrylic paint. The tingle of tension at the back of his neck fizzled out. He sat up slowly. So last night _hadn’t_ been some wild and wonderful dream. He _really_ escaped his father’s clutches, and he _really_ was in Skwisgaar’s apartment. In Skwisgaar’s room.  
  
In Skwisgaar’s bed.  
  
Lying beside him, Skwisgaar looked younger. Sleep smoothed out the hard, anxious set of his mouth and jaw, a constant even in his most relaxed waking moments. One arm bent over his head, revealing a downy tuft of blond armpit hair. His other hand rested daintily on his bare chest, the blankets bunched below the delicate spiral of his belly button. Toki stared at that hand--the knobby knuckles, the short rounded nails, the thin branches of bright blue veins--and thought of the innumerable bodies it had touched. A barista’s fingertips, a client’s forearm, the inside of a lover’s thigh. Then Toki thought, foggily, of the innumerable times Skwisgaar had touched _him_. Knocking his knee after a productive customer consultation. Pressing into the small of his back to guide him out of a room. Cradling his face with a tenderness he had never known, a tenderness Toki was unsure he deserved. The phantom sensation of full lips against his own, a yawning hunger within him at last sated and yet still clamoring for _more, more,_ **_more_**.     
  
The hissing radiator fogged up the windows.  
  
Toki slithered out of bed and slipped out of the room, exhaling shakily as the door closed behind him. He recalibrated. After a lifetime of early morning chores, he was hard-wired for routine. His body ached for activity. What luck: The apartment looked like a bombed-out fraternity house. Toki picked through the wreckage, stacking Solo cups into stiff red cylinders and dumping the contents of half-full, half-crushed beer cans into the bathroom sink. A comet’s tail of vomit streaked across the cloth shower curtain required serious attention. Balanced on the lip of the tub, Toki carefully unhooked each loop from its rung, depositing the curtain and its liner into the basin. He hopped down with grace and dropped to a squat to pillage beneath the sink for soap. This was good. This was _great_. He loved mindless tasks. Mindless tasks kept him _focused_. He needed something dull and monotonous to keep his brain on a short leash. Otherwise, his brain would wander off. To think **_thoughts_**. Thoughts about...arms.  
  
Hands.  
  
Eyes.  
  
Teeth.  
  
Mouth…  
  
**_Maybe they kept their cleaning supplies in the kitchen.  
  
_**Toki lumbered down the hall loaded with empties. A can slid from his grip and clattered to the hardwood. The disturbance went unnoticed. In the living room, starfished and face-down, Pickles snored into the carpet. Murderface was sprawled, unconscious, on the couch, one leg hanging over the back of it, his arm mummified in a messy wrap of toilet paper. Toki entered the kitchen and was surprised to see Nathan, upright and glaring at the coffee maker, holding a yellow Post-It. Even from a distance Toki recognized Skwisgaar’s looping script.  
  
“Damn it, I want to punch this thing _so bad_ ,” Nathan growled, holding the paper up to his eye-level. “But this note says **_I can’t_**.”  
  
The jumble of cans pouring into the recycling bin grabbed Nathan’s attention. He spun on his heel to face Toki.  
  
“Oh.” He leaned into the counter and crossed his arms. “Hi.”  
  
“Hi,” Toki squeaked. “I didn’ts t’inks anyone woulds be ups dis early.”  
  
Nathan scrubbed his eyes with his palm. “Ugh, yeah, I worked the graveyard shift at this warehouse for a couple weeks. Totally fucked up my circadian rhythm.” He peeked at Toki between his fingers. “Are you cleaning? You don’t have to clean.”  
  
Toki’s spine straightened, a blank grin overtaking his face.  
  
“It amn’ts any troubles! I wants to!”  
  
“But I _don’t_ want you to. You’ve been through enough shit, you shouldn’t have to deal with ours. I’ll take care of it.” He paused. “Well. I’ll _say_ I’ll take care of it enough times that Skwisgaar will get fed up and do everything himself, heh.”  
  
He shaped his fingers into a sideways L and folded down his thumb as he made a clicking noise with the side of his mouth.  
  
“Nathan, you a good friends, but you _nots_ a good roommates.”  
  
“Eh, can’t be everything to everyone, I’m only one man.”  
  
“You coulds be _two_ t’ings to _one_ poirson.”  
  
“Ehhhhhhhh, _could I_ , though?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“ **Hey**.” He pointed a painted finger in Toki’s direction. “What are _you_ doing up? It’s your first day of freedom, you should be sleeping in.”  
  
Toki’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t exactly say _I’m an early riser, oh and also if I spend one more second alone with Skwisgaar I am going to set myself on fire.  
  
_“Just eagers to greets de days!”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
Silence fell over them. Sunlight eked through the closed blinds. A bird’s silhouette alighted on the outdoor pane, the black shape fluffing its feathers before zipping away. Toki followed its potential flight path along the interior wall, his gaze catching on something he had missed in last night’s excitement. Hanging above the kitchen island was a painting, vibrant spirals of yellow, orange and red, a gold signature in the corner glinting in the morning light. Toki was drawn to it as if by gravitational force.  
  
“Am dis news?”  
  
Nathan gnawed on the side of his thumbnail. “Oh yeah. Ever since Skwisgaar quit the nursing home he’s been doing a _ton_ of painting.” He spit out a piece of skin with a soft _pbbp_. “Even said he’s thinking about putting together a show.”  
  
A burst of excitement exploded in Toki’s brain. “Reallys!”  
  
“Yeah. Hey.” He pivoted, the coffee maker now visible in the space his body had occupied. “You know how to work this thing?”  
  
Toki shrugged.  
  
“Yeah, me neither. **_Hrrghn._** I can’t break another coffee maker. If I do Skwisgaar will murder me in my sleep.”  
  
“You’ve broken **_SCHIX_**!” A now-awake Murderface called from the next room. “No jury would convict him!”  
  
Nathan’s stomach grumbled, and he laid his hands on his belly with a groan.  
  
“If I don’t get some coffee and some food into my body soon, I **_will_** die.” He bobbed his chin at Toki. “You wanna go to the diner?”  
  
Toki blinked. “Diners?”  
  
“The diner? Hell yeah!” Murderface hobbled one-booted toward them and slouched into the doorframe. “Their breakfascht burritosch are the _schit_.”  
  
Nathan’s lips curled to a sinister smirk. “Oh, so _burritos_ are fine, but hot dogs aren’t?”  
  
Murderface inhaled sharply through his nostrils and pressed two fingers to his temples.  
  
“It’sch _not--_ It _doeschn’t_ \--You don’t--For the lascht time _it’sch about circumference_.”  
  
“ **HEY!”** Nathan craned forward, top half of his body angled at the living room. “ **PICKLES!** ”  
  
A feeble, muffled, “ _Nyeh?”  
  
_“ **DINER?** ”  
  
“ _Nyeeeehhhhhhhhh_.”  
  
“That’s a yes. **Toki**. Diner?”  
  
Before Toki had a chance to answer, Nathan lifted a placating hand.  
  
“My treat.”  
  
Toki smiled once more, this time sincere. This whole friendship thing would take some getting used to.  
  
“Okejs!” He said, beaming. “Sures! Wowee!”  
  
“Alright. Diner.” He punched his fist into his open palm. “We roll out in five. Toki.  
  
“Ja?”  
  
Nathan hooked his thumb over his shoulder, the sinister smirk returning.  
  
“Go wake up the princess.”  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
Toki scuttled out, head bowed, conversation growing fainter as he retreated.  
  
“I’m juscht schaying, a burrito doesch not count asch dick-schaped because physhically, _phyishically_ , a dick cannot be burrito-schized.”  
  
“Clearly you haven’t seen mine.”  
  
“ ** _NA-THAN_**!!!!”  
  
“ _Nyehhhhhhheheheheheh_.”  
  
Nudging open the bedroom door, Toki found Skwisgaar just as he left him. Swanned across the bed, every exhale a serene sigh passing through parted, plush lips. So at peace, deserving of the most peaceful awakening. _He glided onto the bed, hips fitting into Skwisgaar’s as perfectly as puzzle pieces. Brushing hair shining and precious as spun gold off a brow white as fresh-fallen snow, Toki’s hand nestled into the sculpted curve of Skwisgaar’s cheek. Skwisgaar leaned into the contact, humming contentedly. Near-white eyelashes fluttered open, mouth spreading into a lazy, warm smile.  
  
__“Hi, baby,” he murmured, tracing his fingertips slowly down the length of Toki’s forearm.  
  
__“Hi, baby,” Toki answered, masculine and assured. “How abouts we finish whats we started last nights?”  
  
__Skwisgaar bit his lower lip, grinning around the indent, eyes sparkling with lust, and nodded feverishly. He quivered with anticipation as Toki drew close, the space between them mere inches yet wide as a canyon, and Toki knew in his heart of hearts their impending kiss would be passionate and powerful enough to tear the universe asunder...  
  
_Toki picked up a discarded water bottle and beamed Skwisgaar in the face.   
  
“ _Ow_!” Skwisgaar cried, squeezing his nose as he bolted upright. “ _De fucks_?!”  
  
Toki darted out then, as casual as possible, sauntered back in.  
  
“Oh goods you’re finally awakes,” he blurted in a single breathless rush. “De guys ams going to de diners. If you wants to comes.”  
  
Skwisgaar pawed at his bedside table for his glasses, unfolded one leg and held them to his tipped-back face like an attendee of a masquerade ball.  
  
“ _Huuuuueeeeeeghhhhhhhhh_ ja. Okays. Gives to me one minutes to get dressed.”  
  
“You gots it pals!” Toki barked, and made a swift, stiff exit.  
  
This was going to be a problem.

  
\---  


Skwisgaar winked at the waitress when she refilled his coffee mug unprompted, then glanced at Toki to gauge his reaction. He frowned. _Nothing_. Sitting on the opposite end of the U-shaped booth, Toki pushed the remains of his waffle around his plate, expression unreadable. The air between them had been nebulous all morning. At first, Skwisgaar had been too groggy to notice. But as his faculties returned to him, he became aware of Toki’s jittery quietness. His shifty gaze. His skittishness at physical contact.  
  
Abigail had advised him to give Toki space; had Skwisgaar’s eager readiness to enter that space been a grave overstep? A prickly discomfort prodded the inside of his chest.   
  
He’d weathered his fair share of aborted hook-ups (and done so with grace and dignity, depending on who you asked). But those trysts had been as easy to toss out as an unwrapped, unused condom. That electric moment in his bedroom? He never experienced _anything_ like that, with _anyone_. And based on Toki’s muted demeanor, it was safe to assume he hadn’t either. The aftermath was murky, and confusing, and way above Skwisgaar’s emotional paygrade. If it were anyone else, Skwisgaar would pretend the whole thing never happened.  
  
But Toki wasn’t anyone else. And, for the first time, Skwisgaar didn’t want to pretend.  
  
Nathan, making his way through a coil of sausage links, suddenly stopped his ravenous consumption.  
  
“Oh shit,” he said, mouth full of meat. “I’m supposed to be at work right now.”  
  
Pickles’s forehead was pressed to the tabletop, his cinnamon buns pushed aside, his phone buzzing at his ear. “Yeeah?”  
  
“Yeah. I got a job at that comics and gaming shop owned by those creepy nerd brothers. Everybody Was Jomfru Fighting, on South Street? Come to think of it, I haven’t been to work in _days_.” He swallowed, then sucked his teeth. “I’m fired, right?”  
  
“That would be’a safe bet, fer sure.”  
  
“ ** _Damn_**.” He resumed eating unperturbed. “One of these days I’m gonna find a job that sticks.”  
  
“I believe in ya, big guy.”   
  
The diner thrummed with customers. Early bird specialers spooned their eggs and made loud, repeated requests for cranberry juice. Students locked in the unrelenting chokehold of Finals stared blank and bloodshot at open textbooks. Suited business-type folks picked at their fruit cups and fired off emails marked **URGENT!!!!** before heading into the office. Skwisgaar tore at the flaky remains of his toast. Toki drew patterns in his syrup with the back of his knife.   
  
Pickles’s phone vibrated aggressively, rattling across the formica and into the ketchup carrier at the table’s center.  
  
“ _WHO_ isch texting you?” Murderface said. “All your very bescht palsch are right here!”  
  
“It’s Abby,” he replied. “Blamin’ me fer her own bad decision makin’, _as predicted_.”  
  
The screen lit up with a new text: **_fuck you you ginger menace i’m guNa hit you wit my car  
  
_**A low, steady groan rumbled in Pickles’s throat, revving in noise and intensity to a full blown **_SHOUT_** as he slingshotted back into a seated position. He swiped at his phone.  
  
“‘ ** _I’m never drinking again,_** ” he read with a scoff. “Yeeah, whutever, once Wine Wednesday rolls around she’ll be singin’ a diff’rent tune, heh. Awright! I gahdda take a leak.”  
  
Sandwiched between Nathan and Murderface, he slithered off the vinyl, vanished under the table, wriggled around their legs, and popped out the other side. He pushed aside the salt shaker holding the bill in place.  
  
“Wanna settle up?”  
  
Nathan squinted at the paper’s scratchy writing. Skwisgaar wordlessly passed his own glasses to Nathan, who perched them at the end of his nose.  
  
“You owe $16,” Nathan said after some mumbled calculations. Pickles tossed down a $20 and waddled off. “Skwisgaar, you owe $9, Murderface, you owe--”  
  
“ _Uhhhhhhhhh_ , need I _remind_ you, Nathan.” Murderface held up his wrist, swathed in fraying toilet paper fragments. “You _did_ throw me into a wall lascht night.”  
  
Nathan hunched with contrition.  
  
“--Murderface owes nothing, I’m covering him, and I’m also giving him **uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh** \--” he filtered through his wallet “-- **hhhhhhhhhhhh** this punch card for one free smoothie, I’m _sorry_ , please don’t tell my mom I almost killed you.”  
  
Murderface regarded the punch card, and then Nathan, with cool indignation. But when he spoke, it was with an affect of exaggerated, manufactured outrage.  
  
“You think my schilence can be bought?” His smile was crooked and goofy. “You think I’m not gonna purschue _legal action_?”  
  
The pair scooted to the end of the booth, bumping Toki into the aisle. He stepped aside, the back of his thigh grazing Skwisgaar’s elbow. Skwisgaar sipped his coffee and tasted nothing.   
  
“I’m taking your assh to _court_ , Explosion,” Murderface said as he stood.  
  
“Yeah? Well?” Nathan headed to the cash register with Murderface in tow. “What if I countersue?”  
  
“For what!”  
  
“Willful Destruction of Our Friendship.”  
  
“Imposshible. Any judge worth their schalt isch throwing that case _right_ out.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“Because our friendschip isch indestructible.”  
  
Nathan slugged his arm across Murderface’s shoulders, his throaty laugh carrying to the back of the diner.   
  
Skwisgaar cleared his throat, and Toki stiffened.  
  
“ ** _Euyugh_**.” Skwisgaar swiveled his hips around the table’s edge and rose to his feet. “Last nights. Was prettyyyyyy…”  
  
“Yeahs,” Toki agreed. “Prettyyyyyy…”  
  
“Ja.” Skwisgaar fiddled with his belt buckle. “But nots--”  
  
Toki shook his head. “No! Nots--”  
  
“Noes?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ja?”  
  
“Yeahs.”  
  
“Okays.”  
  
Both nodded.  
  
“What de hells ams we sayings?”  
  
“Toki’s not sures.”   
  
A sweet, familiar voice sliced through the tension.  
  
“Hey! Guys!”  
  
Skwisgaar looked up to where Rachel waved enthusiastically from the counter. Oh thank fucking Odin.  
  
“Rachel!” Toki had already bounded over to her. Skwisgaar trailed, hands in his pockets. “How’s it goings?”  
  
Rachel’s bright smile dimmed.  
  
“To be honest, not great. I’m organizing the Winter Arts and Crafts Showcase and one of the artists just dropped out.”  
  
Toki’s forehead creased. “Arts ands Crafts Showcase?”  
  
“Have you never been?  It’s this _amazing_ event where local artists set up in City Hall’s rotunda to display their wares. We get art of _all_ types. Pottery, woodwork, knitwear--”  
  
“Paintings?” Toki chirped.  
  
A warning shot fired between Skwisgaar’s ears.  
  
“Can’ts you just does de t’ings wif one less poirson?” He said.  
  
“The event permit stipulates we _must_ meet a 16 table minimum. If we have less than that, we’ll have to relinquish the space.”  
  
“Dat’s dildos.”  
  
“That’s _bureaucracy_.” She sighed, dropping her chin into her palm. “I’m sorry for being such a Debbie Downer, guys, but if I don’t find a local artist to fill the spot, I’m going to have to cancel!”  
  
Toki bounced on the balls of his feet, his grin on the edge of manic, and Skwisgaar felt the icy sludge of dread slunk through his veins.  
  
“You gots a local artist right heres!” Toki exclaimed.  
  
Rachel took a diplomatic sip of her tea.“I appreciate the thought, and Skwisgaar you’re _very_ talented, but a _tattoo artist_ doesn’t exactly fit the bill…”  
  
“Skwisgaar’s a painter!” Toki gestured his arms at Skwisgaar like he was an extravagant game show prize. “A really, really goods ones!”  
  
“Really?” Rachel said, brightening.  
  
“Toki…”  
  
“He gots all dese paintings just lying arounds de apartments. It’s a poirfect fits!”  
  
“ ** _TOKI_**.” He gritted through clenched teeth. “ ** _No._** ”  
  
Toki turned to face him, expression sympathetic yet unyielding.  
  
“Nathan saids you was t’inkings abouts doing a shows.”  
  
Nathan said _a lot of things_.  
  
“I saids I was _maybes_ consideringks de _potential_ idea of _entertaint-t’ings_ de _hypothetical_ thoughts of _eventugally_ contemplating a _possible_ shows. **_Maybes_**.”  
  
Rachel’s hands were folded piously at her lips. “Oh, Skwisgaar! You’d be doing me such a huge favor, I’ll fill out all the paperwork, I’ll even waive the table fee! Please!”  
  
“How cans you says no to Rachel?” Toki mirrored her pose. “She’s _wonderful_!”  
  
Skwisgaar clapped his hands to his face and tried not to scream.  
  
“Toki, de Arts and Crafts Showcase amn’ts a _show_ , it ams a _sale_ ,” he huffed. “Peoples go dere to buys crappy beadeds jewelry ands watercolor landscapes.”  
  
“Even betters! You can shows off you art _ands_ makes money! You _loves_ money!”  
  
A volt of sadness spiked through Skwisgaar’s bowels.  
  
“De kinds of people who goes to dese t’ings,” he said quietly, “dey ams not interested ins...de kinds of t’ings I do.”  
  
“Ooooooooh, Meester _Serious_ Artist.” Toki waggled his fingers, his mouth pinched at the corners. “T’inks his arts is too _high ends_ for de local craft show--”  
  
“ **Toki**.”  
  
His tone, dark and meek, at last punched the pushiness out of Toki.  
  
“I don’ts t’inks dis ams de right venues.”  
  
The skin between Toki’s eyebrows tugged into an apologetic cinch. He flashed a quick smile at Rachel with one finger raised. Then he leaned in, closing his hand around the bend of Skwisgaar’s elbow. The first time they touched all day.   
  
“I knows you’re scareds,” Toki muttered, ignoring Skwisgaar’s scoff, “after what happeneds wif your last shows. But it’s nots going to be likes dat dis times.”  
  
Skwisgaar flicked at a loose button on his jacket. “Hows do you knows?”  
  
“Because now you haves me!”  
  
Skwisgaar shook his head, the anxiety and the shame and the guilt and the _fear_ eating through his marrow like a cancer. But then Toki slipped his hand into his.  
  
“ _Skwisgaar_." He squeezed. "I’m _nots_ goings to lets you down. I promise.”  
  
He wanted to say no. He should have said no. But as Toki’s thumb traveled the length of his index finger all rational thought went out the window.  
  
“Okays,” he mumbled.  
  
Rachel leapt from her seat. “Okay?”  
  
“Okays!” He repeated, rolling his eyes. “Fine! I does it! Whatevers!”  
  
She cheered, gathering them both into a tight hug.  
  
“You’re incredible Skwisgaar, the absolute _best_ , thank you so much!” She released and reached for her purse. “Wait here, I’m going to go pay. Then we can talk about all the exciting details! This is going to be so much fun!”  
  
Alone again, Skwisgaar tipped his head at Toki with as much attitude he could muster.  
  
“Happy nows?”  
  
Toki’s face, open and earnest and shining, split with a blinding smile. Without warning he threw his arms around Skwisgaar’s waist and braced. Skwisgaar’s heart spread out across his ribcage.  
  
“You makes me _so_ happy.”  
  
Skwisgaar was in _so_ much trouble.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just One More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18260930) by [Jay_Bird23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Bird23/pseuds/Jay_Bird23)




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